
































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































J 














ARDATH 


THE STORY OF A DEAD SELF 


MARIE CORELLI 

AUTHOR OF 

C< A ROMANCE OF TWO WORLDS,” “ VENDETTA,” 44 THELMA,” BTC., BTC. 


THOMPSON & THOMAS, 

267 Wabash Ave. 

/ 

CHICAGO. 


























V 


































CONTENTS 


s-y 7 


7 ’ 

~s, 


PART I.—SAINT AND SKEPTIC. 


I. 

II. 

III. 

IY. 

Y. 

YI. 

VII. 

VIII. 

IX. 

X. 


The Monastery. 

Confession. 

Departure.. 

“ Angelus Domine ”. 

A Mystic Tryst. 

“Nourhalma” and the Original Esdras 

An Undesired Blessing. 

By the Waters of Babylon. 

The Field of Flowers.'. 

God’s Maiden Edris. 


PAGS 

5 

, 1.8 
, 24 
, 35 
. 41 
52 
, 59 
. 68 
75 
81 


PART II.—IN AL-KYRIS. 


XI. The Marvelous City. 91 

XII. Sah-luma. 101 

XII1. A Poet’s Palace . 114 

XIY. The Summons of the Signet. 127 

XY. Sah-luma Sings. 138 

XYI. The Prophet of Doom. 152 

XVII. A Virgin Unshrined. 172 

XVIII. The Love that Kills. 194 

XIX. A Strange Temptation. 214 

XX. The Passage of the Tombs. 229 

XXI. The Crimson River. 243 

XXII. Wasted Passion. 267 

XXIII. “ Nourhalma ”. 2S3 

XXIV. The Fall of the Obelisk. 298 

XXV. A Golden Tress. 317 


XXVI* Th$ MM* * * M MM MM4MMMMMMM4M 




























CONTENTS. 


~yi 

O0U». PAGE 

XXYII, In the Temple of Nagdya. 343 

mm. The Sacrifice.* .. . 362 

XXIX. The Cup of Wrath and Trembling. 374 

XXX. Sunrise. 393 

PAR T III.—POET AND ANGEL. 

XXXI. Fresh Laurels. 413 

XXXII. Zabdstesism and Paulism. 426 

XXXIII. Realism. 442 

XXXIY. Rewards of Fame. 456 

XXXY. One against Many. 467 

XXXYI. Heliobas. 480 

XXXYII. A Missing Record.500 

XXXYIII. The Wizard of the Bow. 514 

XXXIX. By the Rhine. 526 

XL. In the Cathedral. 535 

















ARDATH, 


PART I.—SAINT AND SCEPTIC. 

“ What merest whim 
Seems all this poor endeavor after Fame 
To one who keeps within his steadfast aim 
A love immortal, an immortal too ! 

Look not so ’wildered, for these things are true 
And never can be borne of atomies 
That buzz about our slumbers like brain-flies 
Leaving us fancy-sick. No, I am sure 
My restless spirit never could endure 
To brood so long upon one luxury. 

Unless it did, though fearfully, espy 
A hope beyond the shadow of a dream I ” 

Keats. 


CHAPTER I. 

THE MONASTERY. 

Beep in the heart of the Caucasus mountains a wild 
storm was gathering'. Drear shadows drooped and thick¬ 
ened above the Pass of Dariel,—that terrific gorge which 
like a mere thread seems to hang between the toppling 
frost-bound heights above and the black abysmal depths 
below,—clouds, fringed ominously with lurid green and 
white, drifted heavily yet swiftly across the jagged 
peaks where, looming largely out of the mist, the snow¬ 
capped crest of Mount Kazbek rose coldly white against 
the darkness of the threatening sky. Night was approach¬ 
ing, though away to the wes-<a road gash of crimson, a 
seeming wound in the biy*ast of heaven, showed where 
the sun had set an hour since. Now and again the rising 
wind moaned sobbingly through the tall and spectral 
pines that, with knotted roots fast clenched in the reluct¬ 
ant earth, clung tenaciously to their stony vantage- 




6 


ARDATU. 


ground; and mingling with its wailing murmur, there 
came a distant hoarse roaring as of tumbling torrents, 
while, at far-off intervals could be heard the sweeping 
-thucl o^ an avalanche slipping from point to point on its 
disastrous downward way. Through the wreathing 
vapors the steep, bare sides of the near mountains were 
pallidly visible, their icy pinnacles, like uplifted daggers, 
piercing with sharp glitter the density of the low-hanging 
haze, from which large drops of moisture began presently 
to ooze rather than fall. Gradually the wind increased, 
and soon with sudden fierce gusts shook the pine-trees 
into shuddering anxiety,—the red slit in the sky closed, 
and a gleam of forked lightning leaped athwart the 
driving darkness. An appalling crash of thunder fol¬ 
lowed almost instantaneously, its deep boom vibrating in 
sullenly grand echoes on all sides of the Pass, and then 
—with a swirling, hissing rush of rain—the unbound 
hurricane burst forth alive and furious. On, on! splitting 
huge boughs and flinging them aside like straws, swell¬ 
ing the rivers into riotous floods that swept hither and 
thither, carrying Avith them masses of rock and stone 
and tons of loosened snow—on, on! with pitiless force 
and destructi\ T e haste, the tempest rolled, thundered, and 
shrieked its way through Dariel. As the night darkened 
and the clamor of the conflicting elements grew more 
sustained and violent, a sudden sweet sound floated 
softly through the turbulent air—the slow, measured 
tolling of a bell. To and fro, to and fro, the silvery 
chime SAvnng Avith mild distinctness—it was the vesper- 
hell ringing in the Monastery of Lars far up among the 
crags crowning the ravine. There the wind roared and 
blustered its loudest; it whirled round and round the 
quaint castellated building, battering the gates and 
moving their heavy iron hinges to a most dolorous groan¬ 
ing; it flung rattling hailstones at the narroAV windows, 
and raged and howled at every corner and through every 
crevice ; while snaky tAvists of lightning played threaten¬ 
ingly over the tall iron Cross that surmounted the roof, 
as though bent on striking it down and splitting open the 
firm old walls it guarded. All Avas Avar and tumult 
without:—but within, a tranquil peace prevailed, en¬ 
hanced by the grave murmur of organ music; men’s 
voices mingling together in mellow unison chanted the 
Magnificat, and the uplifted steady harmony of the 


A7WATH. 


7 


grand old anthem rose triumphantly above the noise of 
the storm. The monks who inhabited this mountain 
eyrie, once a fortress, now a religious refuge, were 
assembled in their little chapel—a sort of grotto roughly 
hewn out of the natural rock. Fifteen in number, they 
stood in rows of three abreast, their white woollen robes 
touching the ground, their white cowls thrown back, and 
their dark faces and flashing eyes turned devoutly toward 
the altar whereon blazed in strange and solitary brilliancy 
a Cross of Fire. At the first glance it was easy to see 
that they were a peculiar Community devoted to some 
peculiar form of worship, for their costume was totally 
different in character and detail from any such as are 
worn by the various religious fraternities of the Greek, 
Roman, or Armenian faith, and one especial feature of 
their outward appearance served as a distinctly marked 
sign of their severance from all known monastic orders— 
this was the absence of the disfiguring tonsure. They 
were all fine-looking men seemingly in the prime of life, 
and they intoned the Magnificat not drowsily or droningly, 
but with a rich tunefulness and warmth of utterance that 
stirred to a faint surprise and contempt the jaded spirit 
of one reluctant listener present among them. This was 
a stranger who had arrived that evening at the monastery, 
and who intended remaining there for the night—a man 
of distinguished and somewhat haughty bearing, with a 
dark, sorrowful, poetic face, chiefly remarkable for its 
mingled expression of dreamy ardor and cold scorn, an 
expression such as the unknown sculptor of Hadrian’s era 
caught and fixed in the marble of his ivy-crowned Bacchus- 
Antinous, whose half-sweet, half-cruel smile suggests a 
perpetual doubt of all things and all men. lie was clad 
in the rough-and-ready garb of the travelling Englishman, 
and his athletic figure in its plain-cut modern attire looked 
curiously out of place in that mysterious grotto which, 
with its rocky walls and flaming symbol of salvation, 
seem suited only to the picturesque prophet-like forms of 
the white-gowned brethren whom he now surveyed, as he 
stood behind their ranks, with a gleam of something like 
mockery in his proud, weary eyes. 

“ What sort of fellows are these ? ” he mused—“ fools or 
knaves ? They must be one or the other,—else they would 
not thus chant praises to a Deity of whose existence there 
is, and can be, no proof. It is either sheer ignorance or 


8 


ArdAte. 


hypocrisy,-=*or both combined. I can pardon ignorance, 
but not hypocrisy; for however dreary the results of 
Truth, yet Truth alone prevails ; its killing bolt destroy^ 
the illusive beauty of the Universe, but what then? Is 
it not better so than that the Universe should continue to 
seem beautiful only through the medium of a lie ? ” 

His straight brows drew together in a puzzled, frowning 
line as he asked himself this question, and lie moved 
restlessly. He was becoming impatient; the chanting of 
the monks grew monotonous to his ears; the lighted cross 
on the altar dazzled him with its glare. Moreover he dis¬ 
liked all forms of religious service, though as a lover of 
classic lore it is probable he would have witnessed a cele¬ 
bration in honor of Apollo or Diana with the liveliest inter¬ 
est. But the very name of Christianity was obnoxious to 
him. Like Shelley, he considered that creed a vulgar and 
barbarous superstition. Like Shelley, he inquired, “ If 
God has spoken, why is the world not convinced?” He 
began to wish he had never set foot inside this abode of 
what he deemed a pretended sanctity, although as a 
matter of fact he had a special purpose of his own in visit¬ 
ing the place—a purpose so utterly at variance with the 
professed tenets of his present life and character that the 
mere thought of it secretly irritated him, even while he was 
determined to accomplish it. As yet he had only made 
acquaintance with two of the monks, courteous, good- 
humored personages, who had received him on his arrival 
with the customary hospitality which it was the rule of the 
monastery to* afford to all belated wayfarers journeying 
across the perilous Pass of Dariel. They had asked him 
no questions as to his name or nation, they had simply 
seen in him a stranger overtaken by the storm and in 
need of shelter, and had entertained him accordingly. 
They had conducted him to the refectory, whore a well- 
piled log fire was cheerfully blazing, and there had set 
before him an excellent supper, flavored with equally 
excellent wine. He had, however, scarcely begun to con¬ 
verse with them when the vesper-bell had rung, and, 
obedient to its summons, they had hurried away, leaving 
him to enjoy his repast in solitude. When he had finished 
it, he had sat for a while dreamily listening to the solemn 
strains of the organ, which penetrated to every part of 
the building, and then moved by a vague curiosity to see 
how many men there were dwelling thus together in this 


ARDATH. 


3 

lonely retreat, perched like an eagle’s nest among the 
frozen heights of Caucasus, he had managed to find his way, 
guided by the sound of the music, through various long 
corridors and narrow twisting passages, into the cavernous 
grot where he now stood, feeling infinitely bored and list¬ 
lessly dissatisfied. His primary object in entering the 
chapel had been to get a good full view of the monks, and 
of their faces especially,—but at present this was impos¬ 
sible, as from the position he was obliged to occupy 
behind them their backs alone were visible. 

“And who knows,” he thought moodily, “how long 
they will go on intoning their dreary Latin doggerel? 
Priestcraft and Sham! There’s no escape from it any¬ 
where, not even in the wilds of Caucasus ! I wonder if 
the man I seek is really here, or whether after all I have 
been misled? There are so many contradictory stories 
told about him that one doesn’t know what to believe. 
It seems incredible that he should be a monk; it is such 
an altogether foolish ending to an intellectual career. 
For whatever may be the form of faith professed by this 
particular fraternity, the absurdity of the whole system 
of religion remains the same. Religion’s day is done; the 
very sense of worship is a mere coward instinct—a relic 
of barbarism which is being gradually eradicated from 
our natures by the progress of civilization. The world 
knows by this time that creation is an empty jest; we 
are all beginning to understand its bathos! And if we 
must grant that there is some mischievous supreme Far - 
ceur who, safely shrouded in invisibility, continues to per¬ 
petrate so poor and purposeless a joke for his own amuse¬ 
ment and our torture, we need not, for that matter, admire 
his wit or flatter his ingenuity! For life is nothing but 
vexation and suffering; are we dogs that we should lick 
the hand that crushes us ? ” 

At that moment, the chanting suddenly ceased. The 
organ went on, as though musically meditating to itself 
in minor cords, through which soft upper notes, like 
touches of light on a dark landscape, flickered ripplingly, 
—one monk separated himself from the clustered group, 
and stepping slowly up to the altar, confronted the rest of 
his brethren. The fiery Cross shone radiantly behind him, 
its beams seeming to gather in a lustrous halo round his 
tall, majestic figure,—his countenance, fully illumined 
and clearly visible, was one never to be forgotten for the 


10 


ADD ATM. 


striking force, sweetness, and dignity expressed in its 
every feature. The veriest scoffer that ever made mock 
of fine beliefs and fair virtues must have been moment¬ 
arily awed and silenced in the presence of such a man as 
this,—a man upon whom the grace of a perfect life seemed 
to have fallen like a royal robe, investing even his out¬ 
ward appearance with spiritual authority and grandeur. 
At sight of him, the stranger’s indifferent air rapidly 
changed to one of eager interest,—leaning forward, he re¬ 
garded him intently with a look of mingled astonishment 
and unwilling admiration,—the monk meanwhile extended 
his hands as though in blessing and spoke aloud, his 
Latin words echoing through the rocky temple with the 
measured utterance of poetical rhythm. Translated they 
ran thus: 

“Glory to God, the Most High, the Supreme and 
Eternal! ” 

And with one harmonious murmur of accord the breth¬ 
ren responded: 

“ Glory for ever and ever ! Amen / ” 

“ Glory to God, the Ruler of Spirits and Master of 
Angels! ” 

“ Glory for ever and ever ! Amen ! ” 

“ Glory to God who in love never wearies of loving! ” 

“ Glory for ever and ever ! Amen ! ” 

“ Glory to God in the Name of His Christ our Re¬ 
deemer ! ” 

“ Glory for ever and ever ! Amen ! ” 

“ Glory to God for the joys of the Past, the Present and 
Future! ” 

“ Glory for ever and ever ! Amen / ” 

“Glory to God for the Power of Will and the working 
of Wisdom! ” 

“ Glory for ever and ever ! Amen ! ” 

“ Glory to God for the briefness of life, the gladness of 
death, and the promised Immortal Hereafter! ” 

“ Glory for ever and ever ! Amen!” 

Then came a pause, during which the thunder outside 
added a tumultuous Gloria of its own to those already 
recited,—the organ music died away into silence, and the 
monk now turning so that he faced the altar, sank rev¬ 
erently on his knees. All present followed his example, 



ART) AT U. 


11 


with the exception of the stranger, who, as if in deliber¬ 
ate defiance, drew himself resolutely up to his full height, 
and, folding his arms, gazed at the scene before him with 
a perfectly unmoved demeanor,—he expected to hear some 
long prayer, but none came. There was an absolute still¬ 
ness, unbroken save by the rattle of the rain-drops against 
the high oriel window, and the whistling rush of the 
wind. And as he looked, the fiery Cross began to grow 
dim and pale,—little by little, its scintillating lustre de¬ 
creased, till at last it disappeared altogether, leaving no 
trace of its former brilliancy but a small bright flame that 
gradually took the shape of a seven-pointed Sta r which 
sparkled through the gloom like a suspendecT ruby. The 
chapel was left almost in complete darkness—he could 
scarcely discern even the white figures of the kneeling 
worshippers, — a haunting sense of the Supernatural 
seemed to permeate that deep hush and dense shadow,— 
and notwithstanding his habitual tendency to despise all 
religious ceremonies, there was something novel and 
strange about this one which exercised a peculiar influ¬ 
ence upon his imagination. A sudden odd fancy possessed 
him that there were others present besides himself and 
the brethren,—but who these “others” were, he could 
not determine. It was an altogether uncanny, uncom¬ 
fortable impression—yet it was very strong upon him— 
and he breathed a sigh of intense relief when he heard 
the soft melody of the organ once more, and saw the oaken 
doors of the grotto swing wide open to admit a flood of 
cheerful light from the outer passage. The vespers were 
over,—the monks rose and paced forth two by two, not 
with bent heads and downcast eyes as though affecting an 
abased humility, but with the free and stately bearing of 
kings returning from some high conquest. Drawing a 
little further back into his retired corner, lie watched 
them pass, and was forced to admit to himself that he 
had seldom or never seen finer types of splendid, health¬ 
ful, and vigorous manhood at its best and brightest. As 
noble specimens of the human race alone they were well 
worth looking at,—they might have been warriors, 
princes, emperors, he thought—anything but monks. 
Yet monks they were, and followers of that Christian 
creed he so specially condemned,—for each one wore on 
his breast a massive golden crucifix, hung to a chain and 
fastened with a jewelled star. 



ABDATH. 


'IT'- 

« Cross and Star! ” he mused, as he noticed this bril¬ 
liant and singular decoration, “ an emblem of the frater¬ 
nity, I suppose, meaning. . . what? Salvation and Im¬ 
mortality ? Alas, they are poor, witless builders on shift¬ 
ing sand if they place any hope or reliance on those two 
empty words, signifying nothing! Do they, can they 
honestly believe in God, I wonder ? or are they only act¬ 
ing the usual worn-out comedy of a feigned faith ? ” 

And he eyed them somewhat wistfully as their white 
apparelled figures went by—ten had already left the chapel. 
Two more passed, then other two, and last of all came 
one alone—one who walked slowly, with a dreamy, medi¬ 
tative air, as though he were deeply absorbed in thought. 
The light from the open door streamed fully upon him 
as he advanced—it was the monk who had recited the 
Seven Glorias. The stranger no sooner beheld him than 
he instantly stepped forward and touched him on the 
arm. 

“ Pardon! ” he said hastily in English, “ I think I am 
not mistaken—your name is, or used to be lldiobas ? ” 

The monk bent his handsome head in a slight yet 
graceful salutation, and smiled. 

“ I have not changed it,” he replied, “ I am IZeliobas 
still.” And his keen, steadfast, blue eyes rested half in¬ 
quiringly, half compassionately, on the dark, weary, 
troubled face of his questioner who, avoiding his direct 
gaze, continued: 

“ I should.like to speak to you in private. Can I do so 
now—to-night—at once ? ” 

“ By all means! ” assented the monk, showing no sur¬ 
prise at the request. “Follow me to the library, we 
shall be quite alone there.” 

He led the way immediately out of the chapel, and 
through a stone-paved vestibule, where they were met by 
the two brethren who had first received and entertained 
the unknown guest, and who, not finding him in the re¬ 
fectory where they had left him, were now coming in 
search of him. On seeing in whose company he was, 
however, they drew aside with a deep and reverential 
obeisance to the personage called Heliobas—-he, silently 
acknowledging it, passed on, closely attended by the 
stranger, till he reached a spacious, well-lighted apart¬ 
ment, the walls of which were entirely lined with books. 
Here, entering and closing the door, he turned and con- 


jlUDath. 


18 

fronted his visitor—his tall, imposing figure in its trail¬ 
ing white garments calling to mind the picture of some 
saint or evangelist—and with grave yet kindly courtesy, 
said: 

“Now, my friend, I am at your disposal! In what 
way can Heliobas, who is dead to the world, serve one 
for whom surely as yet the world is everything 


CHAPTER II. 

CONFESSION. 

His question was not very promptly answered. The 
stranger stood still, regarding him intently for two or 
three minutes with a look of peculiar pensiveness and ab¬ 
straction, the heavy double fringe of his long dark lashes 
giving an almost drowsy pathos to his proud and earnest 
eyes. Soon, however, this absorbed expression changed 
to one of sombre scorn. 

“ The world ! ” he said slowly and bitterly. “ You 
think I care for the world ? Then you read me wrongly 
at the very outset of our interview, and your once re¬ 
puted skill as a Seer goes for naught! To me the world 
is a graveyard full of dead, worm-eaten things, and its 
supposititious Creator, whom you have so bepraised in 
your orisons to-night, is the Sexton who entombs, and 
the Ghoul who devours his own hapless Creation! I my¬ 
self am one of the tortured and dying, and I have sought 
you simply that you may trick me into a brief oblivion 
of my doom, and mock me with the mirage of a life that 
is not and can never be! How can you serve me ? Give 
me a few hours’ respite from wretchedness! that is all I 
ask I ” 

As he spoke his face grew blanched and haggard, as 
though he suffered from some painfully repressed inward 
agony. The monk Heliobas heard him with an air of 
attentive patience, but said nothing; he therefore, after 
waiting for a reply and receiving none, went on in colder 
and more even tones : 

“ I dare say my words seem strange to you—though 
they should not do so if, as reported, you have studied all 
the varying phases of that purely intellectual despair 
which in this age of excessive over-culture, crushes men 


14 


ABB ATE. 


who learn too much and think too deeply But before 
going further I had better introduce myself. My name is 
Alwyn.” 

“ Theos Alwyn, the English author, I presume ?”• in¬ 
terposed the monk interrogatively. 

“ Why, yes! ” this in accents of extreme surprise— 
“ how did you know that! ” 

“Your celebrity,” politely suggested Heliobas, with a 
wave of the hand and an enigmatical smile that might 
have meant anything or nothing. 

Alwyn colored a little. “You mistake,” he said in¬ 
differently, “ I have no celebrity. The celebrities of my 
country are few, and among them those most admired are 
jockeys and divorced women. I merely follow in the 
rear-line of the art or profession of literature—I am that 
always unluckiest and most undesirable kind of an author, 
a writer of verse—I lay no claim, not now at any rate, to 
the title of poet. While recently staying in Paris I 

chanced to hear of you.” 

The monk bowed ever so slightly—there was a dawning 
gleam of satire in his brilliant eyes. 

“You won special distinction and renown there, I 
believe, before you adopted this monastic life ? ” pursued 
Alwyn, glancing at him curiously. 

“ Did I ? ” and Heliobas looked cheerfully interested, 
“Beally I was not aware of it, I assure you! Possibly 
my ways and doings may have occasionally furnished the 
Parisians with something to talk about instead of the 
weather, and I know I made some few friends and an 
astonishing number of enemies, if that is what you mean 
by distinction and renown ! ” 

Alwyn smiled—his smile was always reluctant, and had 
in it more of sadness than sweetness, yet it gave his 
features a singular softness and beauty, just as a ray of 
sunlight falling on a dark picture will brighten the tints 
into a momentary warmth of seeming life. 

“ All reputation means that, I think,” he said, « unless 
it be mediocre—then one is safe; one has scores of 
friends, and scarce a foe. ALediocrity succeeds, wonderfully 
well, nowadays—nobody hates it, because every one feels 
how easily they themselves can attain to it. Exceptional 
talent is aggressive—actual genius is offensive; people are 
insulted te have a thing held up for their admiration 
which entirely out of their reach. They become like 




ARDATH. 


15 

bears climbing* a greased pole; they see a great name 
above them—a tempting sugary morsel which they would 
fain snatch and devour—and when their uncouth efforts 
fail, they huddle together on the ground beneath, look up 
with dull, peering eyes, and impotently snarl! But 
you,”—and here his gazed rested doubtfully, yet ques- 
tioningly, on his companion’s open, serene countenance— 
* you, if rumor speaks truly, should have been able to tame 
your bears and turn them into dogs, humble and couchant! 
Your marvellous achievements as a mesmerist-” 

“ Excuse me! ” returned Heliobas quietly, “ I never 
was a mesmerist.” 

“ Well—as a spiritualist then; though I cannot admit 
the existence of any such thing as spiritualism.” 

“ Neither can I,” returned Heliobas, with perfect good- 
liumor, “ according to the generally accepted meaning of 
the term. Pray go on, Mr. Alwyn! ” 

Alwyn looked at him, a little puzzled and uncertain 
how to proceed. A curious sense of irritation was growing 
up in his mind against this monk with the grand head 
and flashing eyes—eyes that seemed to strip bare his 
innermost thoughts, as lightning strips bark from a 
tree. 

“ I was told,” he continued after a pause, during which 
he had apparently considered and prepared his words, 
“ that you were chiefly known in Paris as being the 
possessor of some mysterious internal force—call it 
magnetic, hypnotic, or spiritual, as you please—which, 
though perfectly inexplicable, was yet plainly manifested 
and evident to all who placed themselves under your in¬ 
fluence. Moreover, that by this force you were able to deal 
scientifically and practically with the active principle of 
intelligence in man, to such an extent that you could, in 
some miraculous way, disentangle the knots of toil and 
perplexity in an over-taxed brain, and restore to it its 
pristine vitality and vigor. Is this true ? If so, exert your 
power upon me,—for something, I know not what, has of 
late frozen up the once overflowing fountain of my 
thoughts, and I have lost all working ability. Vv 7 hen a 
man can no longer work, it were best he should die, only 
unfortunately I cannot die unless I kill myself,—which it 
is possible I may do ere long. But in the meantime,”— 
he hesitated a moment, then went on, “ in the meantime, 
I have a strong wish to be deluded—I use the word 


16 


ARDATH. 


advisedly, and repeat it— deluded into an imaginary 
happiness, though I am aware that as an agnostic and 
searcher after truth—truth absolute, truth positive—such 
a desire on my part seems even to myself inconsistent 
and unreasonable. Still I confess to having it; and 
therein, I know, I betray the weakness of my nature. It 
| may be that I am tired ”—and he passed his hand across 
his brow with a troubled gesture— 44 or puzzled by the in¬ 
finite, incurable distress of all living things. Perhaps I 
am growing mad!—who knows !—but whatever my 
condition, you,—if report be correct,—have the magic 
skill to ravish the mind away from its troubles and trans¬ 
port it to a radiant Elysium of sweet illusions and 
ethereal ecstasies. Do this for me, as you have done it 
for others, and whatever payment you demand, whether 
in gold or gratitude, shall be yours.” 

He ceased; the wind howled furiously outside, flinging 
gusty dashes of rain against the one window of the room, 
a tall arched casement that clattered noisily with every 
blow inflicted upon it by the storm. Heliobas gave him a 
swift, searching glance, half pitying, half disdainful. 

“ Hasehiseh or opium should serve your turn,” he said 
curtly. “I know of no other means whereby to tempo¬ 
rarily still the clamorings of conscience.” 

Alwyn flushed darkly. “ Conscience! ” he began in 
rather a resentful tone. 

tc Aye, conscience ! ” repeated Heliobas firmly. “ There 
is such a thing. Do you profess to be wholly without 
It?” 

Alwyn deigned no reply—the ironical bluntness of the 
question annoyed him. 

“ You have formed a very unjust opinion of me, Mr. 
Alwyn,” continued Heliobas, “ an opinion which neither 
honors your courtesy nor your intellect—pardon me for 
saying so. You ask me to 4 mock ’ and 4 delude’ you as 
if it were my custom and delight to make dupes of my 
suffering fellow-creatures! You come to me as though I 
were a mesmerist or magnetizer such as you can hire for 
a few guineas in any civilized city in Europe—nay, I doubt 
not but that you consider me that kind of so-called 4 spirit¬ 
ualist ’ whose enlightened intelligence and heaven-aspir¬ 
ing aims are demonstrated in the turning of tables and 
general furniture-gyration. I am, however, hopelessly de¬ 
ficient in such knowledge. I should make a most unsat- 


ARDATU. 


17 ' 


isfactory conjurer! Moreover, whatever you may have 
heard concerning me in Paris, you must remember I am 
in Paris no longer. I am a monk, as you see, devoted to 
my vocation; I am completely severed from the world, 
and my duties and occupations in the present are widely 
different to those which employed me in the past. Then 
I gave what aid I could to those who honestly needed it 
and sought it without prejudice or personal distrust; but 
now my work among men is finished, and I practice my 
science, such as it is, on others no more, except in very 
rare and special cases.” 

Alwyn heard, and the lines of his face hardened into an 
expression of frigid hauteur. 

“ I suppose I am to understand by this that you will do 
nothing for me ?” he said stiffly. 

“ Why, what can I do ? ” returned Heliobas, smiling a 
little. “ All you want—so you say—is a brief forgetful¬ 
ness of your troubles. Well, that is easily obtainable 
through certain narcotics, if you choose to employ them 
and take the risk of their injurious action on your bodily 
system. You can drug your brain and thereby fill it with 
drowsy suggestions of ideas—of course they would only 
be suggestions , and very vague and indefinite ones too, 
still they might be pleasant enough to absorb and repress 
bitter memories for a time. As for me, my poor skill 
would scarcely avail you, as I could promise you neither 
self-oblivion nor visionary joy. I have a certain internal 
force, it is true—a spiritual force which when strongly 
exercised overpowers and subdues the material—and by 
exerting this I could, if I thought it well to do so, release 
your Soul —that is, the Inner Intelligent Spirit which is 
the actual You—from its house of clay, and allow it an 
interval of freedom. But what its experience might be in 
that unfettered condition, whether glad or sorrowful, I 
am totally unable to predict.” 

Alwyn looked at him steadfastly. 

“ You believe in the Soul ? ” he asked. 

“ Most certainly ! ” 

“ As a separate Personality that continues to live on 
when the body perishes ? ” 

“ Assuredly.” 

“ And you profess to be able to liberate it for a time 

from its mortal habitation-” 

2 


18 


ABDATIL 


“ I do not nrofess,” interposed ITeliobas quietly. “ I 
cm do so.” 

“But with tne success of the experiment your power 
ceases?—you cannot foretell whether the unimprisoned 
creature will take its course to an inferno of suffering or 
a heaven of delight ?—is this what you mean ? ” 

Ileliobas bent his head in grave assent. 

Alwyn broke into a harsh laugh—“ Come then! ” he ex¬ 
claimed with a reckless air,—“ Begin your incantations at 
once! Send me hence, no matter where, so long as I am 
for a while escaped from this den of a world, this dun¬ 
geon with one small window through which, with the 
death-rattle in our throats, we stare vacantly at the blank 
unmeaning horror of the Universe! Prove to me that 
the Soul exists—ye gods! Prove it! and if mine can 
find its way straight to the mainspring of this revolving 
Creation, it shall cling to the accursed wheels and stop 
them, that they may grind out the tortures of Life no 
more! ” 

lie flung up his hand with a wild gesture : his counte¬ 
nance, darkly threatening and defiant, was yet beautiful 
with the evil beauty of a rebellious and fallen angel. Ilis 
breath came and went quickly,—he seemed to challenge 
some invisible opponent. Ileliobas meanwhile watched 
him much as a physician might watch in his patient the 
workings of a new disease; then he said in purposely cold 
and tranquil tones: 

“ A bold idea! singularly blasphemous, arrogant, and 
—fortunately for us all—impracticable ! Allow me to re¬ 
mark that you are over-excited, Mr. Alwyn; you talk as 
madmen may, but as reasonable men should not. Come,” 
and he smiled,—a smile that was both grave and sweet, 
“ come and sit down—you are worn out with the force of 
your own desperate emotions—rest a few minutes and 
recover yourself.” 

His voice though gentle was distinctly authoritative, 
and Alwyn meeting the full gaze of his calm eyes felt 
bound to obey the implied command. He therefore sank 
listlessly into an easy-chair near the table, pushing back 
the short, thick curls from his brow with a wearied 
movement; he was very pale,—an uneasy sense of 
shame was upon him, and lie sighed,—a quick sigh of 
exhausted passion. Ileliobas seated himself opposite and 
looked at him earnestly; he studied with sympathetic 



ARDATH. 


19 


attention the lines of dejection and fatigue which marred 
the attractiveness of features otherwise frank, poetic, and 
noble. He had seen many such men. Men in their prime 
who had begun life full of high faith, hope, and lofty as¬ 
piration, yet whose fair ideals once bruised in the mortar 
of modern atheistical opinion had perished forever, while 
they themselves, like golden eagles suddenly and cruelly 
shot while flying in mid-air, had fallen helplessly, 
broken-winged among the dust-heaps of the world, never 
to rise and soar sunwards again. Thinking this, his ac¬ 
cents were touched with a certain compassion when after: 
a pause he said softly: 

“ Poor boy!—poor, puzzled, tired brain that would fain 
judge Infinity by merely finite perception! You were a 
far truer poet, Theos Alwyn, when as a world-foolish, 
heaven-inspired lad you believed in God, and therefore, in 
godlike gladness, found all things good! ” 

Alwyn looked up—his lips quivered. 

“Poet—poet!” he murmured—“why taunt me with 
the name ? ” He started upright in his chair—“ Let me 
tell you all,” he said suddenly; “ you may as well know 
what has made me the useless wreck I am; though per¬ 
haps I shall only weary you.” 

“ Far from it,” answered Heliobas gently. “ Speak 
freely—but remember I do not compel your confi¬ 
dence.” 

“ On the contrary, I think you do! ” and again that 
faint, half-mournful smile shone for an instant in his deep, 
dark eyes, “ though you may not be conscious of it. Any¬ 
how I feel impelled to unburden my heart to you : I have 
kept silence so long! You know what it is in the world, 

. . . one must always keep silence, always shut in one’s- 
grief and force a smile, in company with the rest of the 
tormented, forced-smiling crowd. We can never be 
ourselves—our veritable selves—for, if we were, the air 
would resound with our ceaseless lamentations! It is 
horrible to think of all the pent-up sufferings of humanity 
—all the inconceivably hideous agonies that remain forever 
dumb and unrevealed ! When I was young,—how long 
ago that seems ! yes, though my actual years are but thirty, 
I feel an alder-elde of accumulated centuries upon me— 
when I was young, the dream of my life was Poesy. Per¬ 
haps I inherited the fatal love of it from my mother— 
she was a Greek—and she had a subtle music in her that 


20 


AZtDATH. 


nothing could quell, not even my father’s English cold¬ 
ness. She named me Theos, little guessing what a dreary 
sarcasm that name would prove! It was well, I think, that 
she died early.” 

“ Well for her, but perhaps not so well for you,” said 
Heliobas with a keen, kindly glance at him. | 

Alwyn sighed. “ Nay, well, for us both,—for I should 
have chafed at her loving restraint, and she would un¬ 
questionably have been disappointed in me. My father 
was a conscientious, methodical business man, who spent 
all his days up to almost the last moment of his life in 
amassing money, though it never gave him any joy so 
far as I could see, and when at his death I became sole 
possessor of his hardly-earned fortune, I felt far more 
sorrow than satisfaction. I wished he had spent his gold 
on himself and left me poor, for it seemed to me I had 
need of nothing save the little I earned by my pen—I was 
content to live an anchorite and dine off a crust for the 
sake of the divine Muse I worshipped. Fate, however, 
willed it otherwise,—and though I scarcely cared for the 
wealth I inherited, it gave me at least one blessing—that 
of perfect independence. I was free to follow my own 
chosen vocation, and for a brief wondering while I deemed 
myself happy, . . . happy as Keats must have been when 
the fragment of ‘ Hyperion ’ broke from his frail life as 
thunder breaks from a summer-cloud. I was as a monarch 
swaying a sceptre that commanded both earth and heaven; 
a kingdom was mine—a kingdom of golden ether, peopled 
with shining shapes Protean,—alas! its gates are shut 
upon me now, and I shall enter it no more ! ” 

‘“No more’is a long time, my friend!” interposed 
Heliobas gently. “You are too despondent,—perchance 
too diffident, concerning your own ability.” 

“Ability! ” and he laughed wearily. “ I have none,— 
I am as weak and inapt as an untaught child—the music 
of my heart is silenced! Yet there is nothing I would 
not do to regain the ravishment of the past—when the 
sight of the sunset across the hills, or the moon’s silver 
transfiguration of the sea filled me with deep and inde¬ 
scribable ecstasy—when the thought of Love, like a full 
chord struck from a magic harp, set my pulses throbbing 
with delirious delight—fancies thick as leaves in summer 
crowded my brain—Earth was a round charm hung on 
the breast of a smiling Divinity—men were gods—women 


ABDATirr 


21 


were angels !—the world seemed but a wide scroll for the 
signatures of poets, and mine, I swore, should be clearly 
written! ” 

He paused, as though ashamed of his own fervor, and 
glanced at Ileliobas, who, leaning a little forward in his 
chair was regarding him with friendly, attentive interest; 
then he continued more calmly : 

“ Enough! I think I had something in me then,—• 
something that was new and wild and, though it may 
seem self-praise to say so, full of that witching glamour 
we name Inspiration ; but whatever that something was, 
call it genius, a trick of song, what you will,—it was soon 
crushed out of me. The world is fond of slaying its 
singing-birds and devouring them for daily fare—one 
rough pressure of finger and thumb on the little melo¬ 
dious throats, and they are mute forever. So I found, 
when at last in mingled pride, hope, and fear I published 
my poems, seeking for them no other recompense save 
fair hearing and justice. They obtained neither—they 
were tossed carelessly by a few critics from hand to hand, 
jeered at for a while, and finally flung back to me as lies 
—lies all! The finely spun web of airy fancy,—the del¬ 
icate interwoven intricacies of thought,—these were tore 
to shreds with as little compunction as idle children feel 
when destroying for their own cruel sport the velvety 
wonder of a moth’s wing, or the radiant rose and emerald 
pinions of a dragon-fly. I was a fool—so I was told with 
many a languid sneer and stale jest—to talk of hidden 
mysteries in the whisper of the wind and the dash of the 
waves—such sounds were but common cause and effect. 
The stars were merely conglomerated masses of heated 
vapor condensed by the work of ages into meteorites and 
from meteorites into worlds—and these, went on rolling 
in their appointed orbits, for what reason nobody knew, 
but then nobody cared! And Love—the key-note of the 
theme to which I had set my mistaken life in tune—Love 
was only a graceful word used to politely define the low 
but very general sentiment of coarse animal attraction— 
in short, poetry such as mine was altogether absurd and 
out of date when confronted with the facts of every-day 
existence—facts which plainly taught us that man’s 
chief business here below was simply to live, breed, and 
die—the life of a silk-worm or caterpillar on a slightly 
higher platform of ability; beyond this—nothing! ” 



22 


ABDATff. 


“Nothing?” mar mured Heliobas, in a tone of sug¬ 
gestive inquiry—“ really nothing ? ” 

“ Nothing! ” repeated Alwyn, with an air of resigned 
hopelessness; “ for I learned that, according to the re¬ 
sults arrived at by the most advanced thinkers of the day, 
there was no God, no Soul, no Hereafter—the loftiest 
efforts of the highest heaven-aspiring minds were doomed 
to end in non-fruition, failure, and annihilation. Among 
all the desperately hard truths that came rattling down 
upon me like a shower of stones, I think this was the 
crowning one that killed whatever genius I had. I use 
the word ‘genius’ foolishly—though, after all, genius 
itself is nothing to boast of, since it is only a morbid and 
unhealthy condition of the intellectual faculties, or at 
least was demonstrated to me as such by a scientific 
friend of my own who, seeing I was miserable, took 
great pains to make me more so if possible. He proved, 
—to his own satisfaction if not altogether to mine,—that 
the abnormal position of certain molecules in the brain 
produced an eccentricity or peculiar bias in one direction 
which, practically viewed, might be described as an in¬ 
telligent form of monomania, but which most people 
chose to term ‘ genius,’ and that from a purely scientific 
standpoint it was evident that the poets, painters, musi¬ 
cians, sculptors, and all the widely renowned ‘great ones ’ 
of the earth should be classified as so many brains more 
or less affected by abnormal molecular formation, which 
strictly speaking amounted to brain-deformity. He 
assured me, that to the properly balanced, healthily organ¬ 
ized brain of the human animal, genius was an impossi¬ 
bility—it was a malady as unnatural as rare. ‘And it 
is singular, very singular,’ he added with a complacent 
smile, ‘ that the world should owe all its finest art and liter¬ 
ature merely to a few varieties of molecular disease! ’ I 
thought it singular enough, too,—however, I did not care 
to argue with him ; I only felt that if the illness of genius 
had at any time affected me, it was pretty well Certain I 
should now suffer no more from its delicious pangs and 
honey-sweet fever. T was cured ! The probing-knife of 
the world’s cynicism had found its way to the musically 
throbbing centre of divine disquietude in my brain, and 
had there cut down the growth of fair imaginations for 
ever. I thrust aside the bright illusions that had once 
been my gladness ; I forced myself to look with unflinch^ 


AJRDATH. 


23 


ing eyes at the wide waste of universal Nothingness re¬ 
vealed to me by the rigid positivists and iconoclasts of 
the century; but my heart died within me; my whole 
being froze as it were into an icy apathy,—I wrote no 
more; I doubt whether I shall ever write again. Of a 
truth, there is nothing to write about. All has been said. 
The days of the Troubadours are past,—one cannot string 
canticles of love for men and women whose ruling passion 
is the greed of gold. Yet I have sometimes thought life 
would be drearier even than it is, were the voices of 
poets altogether silent; and I wish—yes! I wish I had 
it in my power to brand my sign-manual on the brazen 
face of this coldly callous age—brand it deep in those 
letters of living fire called Fame! ” 

A look of baffled longing and ungratified ambition 
came into his musing eyes,—his strong, shapely white 
hand clenched nervously, as though it grasped some unseen 
yet perfectly tangible substance. Just then the storm 
without, which had partially lulled during the last few 
minutes, began its wrath anew: a glare of lightning 
blazed against the uncurtained window, and a heavy 
clap of thunder burst overhead with the sudden crash of 
an exploding bomb. 

“You care for Fame?” asked Heliobas abruptly, as 
soon as the terrific uproar had subsided into a distant, 
dull rumbling mingled with the pattering dash of hail. 

“ I care for it—yes ! ” replied Alwyn, and his voice was 
very low and dreamy. “ For though the world is a grave- ^ 
yard, as I have said, full of unmarked tombs, still here 
and there we find graves, such as Shelley’s or Byron’s, 
whereon pale flowers, like sweet suggestions of ever- 
silenced music, break into continuous bloom. And shall 
I not win my own death-garland of asphodel? ” 

There was an indescribable, almost heart-rending pathos 
in his manner of uttering these last words—a hopeless¬ 
ness of effort and a despairing sense of failure which he 
himself seemed conscious of, for, meeting the fixed and 
earnest gaze of Heliobas, he quickly relapsed into his 
usual tone of indolent indifference. 

“ You see,” he said, with a forced smile, “ my story is 
not very interesting! No hairbreadth escapes, no thrill¬ 
ing adventures, no love intrigues—nothing but mental 
misery, for which few people have any sympathy. A 
child with a cut finger gets more universal commiseration 



24 


ARDATH. 


than a man with a tortured brain and breaking heart, 
yet there can be no question as to which is the most in¬ 
tense and long-enduring anguish of the two. However, 
such as my troubles are I have told you all. I have laid 
bare my ‘ wound of living ’—a wound that throbs and 
burns, and aches, more intolerably with every passing 
hour and day—it is not unnatural, I think, that I should 
seek for a little cessation of suffering; a brief dreaming 
space in which to rest for a while, and escape from the 
deathful Truth—Truth, that like the flaming sword 
placed east of the fabled garden of Eden, turns ruthlessly 
every way, keeping us out of the forfeited paradise of 
imaginative aspiration, which made the men of old time 
great because they deemed themselves immortal. It was 
a glorious faith ! that strong consciousness, that in the 
change and upheaval of whole universes the soul of man 
should forever over-ride disaster! But now that we 
know ourselves to be of no more importance, relatively 
speaking, than the animalculse in a drop of stagnant 
water, what great works can be done, what noble deeds 
accomplished, in the face of the declared and proved 
futility of everything? Still, if you can, as you say, 
liberate me from this fleshly prison, and give me new 
sensations and different experiences, why then let me 
depart with all possible speed: for I am certain I shall 
find in the storm-swept areas of space nothing worse 
than life as lived in this present world. Remember, I 
am quite incredulous as to your professed power—” he 
paused and glanced at the white-robed, priestly figure 
opposite, then added, lightly, “ but I am curious to test it 
all the same. Are you ready to begin your spells ?—and 
shall I say the Nunc Dimittis f ” 


CHAPTER III. 

DEPARTURE. 

IIeliobas was silent—he seemed engaged in deep and 
anxious thought,—and he kept his steadfast eyes fixed on 
Alwyn’s countenance, as though he sought there the clew 
to some difficult problem. 

What do you know of the JVunc Dimittis f ” he asked 


ABDATU. 


25 


at last, with a half-smile. “ You might as well say Pater 
Noster ,—both canticle and prayer would be equally 
unmeaning to you! For poet as you are,—or let me say 
as you were ,—inasmuch as no atheist was ever a poet at 
the same time-” 

“You are wrong,” interrupted Alwyn quickly. “Shel¬ 
ley was an atheist.” 

“Shelley, my good friend, was not an atheist.* He 
strove to be one,—nay, he made pretence to be one,—but 
throughout his poems we hear the voice of his inner and 
better self appealing to that Divinity and Eternity which, 
in spite of the material part of him, he instinctively felt 
existent in bis own being I repeat, poet as your were, 
and poet as you will be again when the clouds on your 
mind are cleared,—you present the strange, but not 
uncommon spectacle ot an Immortal Spirit fighting to dis¬ 
prove its own Immortality. In a word, you will not 
believe in the Soul.” 

“ I cannot! ” said Alwyn, with a hopeless gesture. 

“Why?” 

“ Science can give us no positive proof of its existence; 
it cannot be defined.” 

“ What do you mean by Science ? ” demanded Heliobas. 
“The foot of the mountain, at which men now stand, 
grovelling and uncertain how to climb ? or the glittering 
summit itself which touches God’s throne?” 

Alwyn made no answer. 

“Tell me,” pursued Heliobas, “how do you define the 
vital principle ? What mysterious agency sets the heart 
beating and the blood flowing ? By the small porter’s lan¬ 
tern of to-day’s so-called Science, will you fling a light on 
the dark riddle of an apparently purposeless Universe, 
and explain to me why we live at all ? ” 

“ Evolution,” responded Alwyn shortly, “ and Neces¬ 
sity.” 

“ Evolution from what ? ” persisted Heliobas. “ From 
one atom ? What atom ? And from whence came the 
atom ? And why the Necessity of any atom ? ” 

“ The human brain reels at such questions! ” said 
Alwyn, vexedly and with impatience. “ I cannot answer 
them—no one can ! ” 

“No orm?” Heliobas smiled very tranquilly. “Do not 


* See the last two verses of Adona'is. 




26 


AIWA TU. 


be too sure of that! And why should the human brain 
‘ reel’ ?—the sagacious, calculating, clear human brain that 
never gets tired, or puzzled, or perplexed!—that settles 
everything in the most practical and common-sense man¬ 
ner, and disposes of God altogether as an extraneous sort 
of bargain not wanted in the general economy of our little 
solar system! Aye, the human brain is a wonderful thing! 
—and yet by a sharp, well-directed knock with this”— 
and he took up from the table a paper-knife with a massive, 
silver-mounted, weighty horn-handle—“ I could deaden it 
in such wise that the Soul could no more hold any com¬ 
munication with it, and it would lie an inert mass in the 
cranium, of no more use to its owner than a paralyzed 
limb.” 

“ You mean to infer that the brain cannot act without 
the influence of the soul ? ” 

“ Precisely! If the hands on the telegraph dial will not 
respond to the electric battery, the telegram cannot be 
deciphered. But it would be foolish to deny the existence 
of the electric battery because the dial is unsatisfactory! 
In like manner, when, by physical incapacity, or inherited 
disease, the brain can no longer receive the impressions 
or electric messages of the Spirit, it is practically useless. 
Yet the Spirit is there all the same, dumbly waiting for 
release and another chance of expansion.” 

“ Is this the way you account for idiocy and mania ? ” 
asked Alwyn incredulously. 

“ Most certainly ; idiocy and mania always come from 
man’s interference with the laws of health and of nature— 
never otherwise. The Soul placed within us by the Creator 
is meant to be fostered by man’s unfettered Will; if man 
chooses to employ that unfettered Will in wrong directions, 
he has only himself to blame for the disastrous results that 
follow. You may perhaps ask why God has thus left our 
wills unfettered: the answer is simple—that we may serve 
Him by choice and not by compulsion. Among the myriad 
million worlds that acknowledge Ilis goodness gladly and 
undoubtingly, why should He seek to force unwilling obedi¬ 
ence from us castaways! ” 

“ As we are on this subject,” said Alwyn, with a tinge of 
satire in his tone, “ if you grant a God, and make Him 
out to be supreme Love, why in the name of His sup¬ 
posed inexhaustible beneficence should we be castaways 
at all?’' 


ARDATn. 


27 


“ Because in our overweening pride and egotism we have 
elected to be such,” replied Heliobas. “ As angels have 
fallen, so have we. But we are not altogether castaways 
now, since this signal,” and he touched the cross on his 
breast, “ shone in heaven.” 

Alwyn shrugged his shoulders disdainfully. 

“ Pardon me,” he murmured coldly, “ with every desire 
to respect your religious scruples, I really cannot, person¬ 
ally speaking, accept the tenets of a worn-out faith, which 
all the most intellectual minds of the day reject as mere 
ignorant superstition. The carpenter’s son of Judea was 
no doubt a very estimable person,—a socialist teacher 
whose doctrines were very excellent in theory but impos¬ 
sible of practice. That there was anything divine about 
Him I utterly deny; and I confess I am surprised that 
you, a man of evident culture, do not seem to see the hol¬ 
low absurdity of Christianity as a system of morals and 
civilization. It is an ever-sprouting seed of discord and 
hatred between nations ; it has served as a casus belli of 
the most fanatical and merciless character ; it is an¬ 
swerable for whole seas of cruel and unnecessary blood¬ 
shed. . . .” 

“ Have you nothing new to say on the subject ? ” inter¬ 
posed Heliobas, with a slight smile. “I have heard all 
this so often before, from divers kinds of men both educated 
and ignorant, who have a willful habit of forgetting all 
that Christ Himself prophesied concerning His creed of 
Self-renunciation, so difficult to selfish humanity: ‘ Think 
not that I come to send peace on the earth. I come , not to 
send peace, but a sword' Again ‘ Ye shall be hated of all 
men for my name's sake.' . . . ‘ all ye shall be offended be¬ 
cause of me' Such plain words as these seem utterly 
thrown away upon this present generation. And do you 
know I find a curious lack of originality among so-called 
‘ freethinkers ’; in fact their thoughts can hardly be des¬ 
ignated as ‘ free ’ when they all run in such extremely 
narrow grooves of similitude—a flock of sheep mildly 
trotting under the guidance of the butcher to the slaughter¬ 
house could not be more tamely alike in their bleating 
ignorance as to where they are going. Your opinions, for 
instance, differ scarce a whit from those of the common 
boor who, reading his penny Radical paper, thinks be can 
dispense with God, and talks of the ‘ carpenter’s son of 
Ju aea ’ with the same easy flippancy and scant reverence 


28 


ABDATH. 


as yourself. The ‘ intellectual minds of the day ’ to which 
you allude, are extraordinarily limited of comprehension, 
and none of them, literary or otherwise, have such a grasp 
of knowledge as any of these dead and gone authors, and 
he waved his hand toward the surrounding loaded book¬ 
shelves, “ who lived centuries ago, and are now, as far as 
the general public is concerned, forgotten. All the 
volumes you see here are vellum manuscripts copied from 
the original slabs of baked clay, stone tablets, and engraved 
sheets of ivory, and among them is an ingenious treatise 
by one Remeni Adranos, chief astronomer to the then 
king of Babylonia, setting forth the Atom and Evolution 
theory with far more clearness and precision than any of 
your modern professors. All such propositions are old— 
old as the hills, I assure you; and these days in which 
you live are more suggestive of the second childhood of 
the world than its progressive prime. Especially in your 
own country the general dotage seems to have reached a 
sort of climax, for there you have the people actually for¬ 
getting, deriding, or denying their greatest men who form 
the only lasting glories of their history; they have even 
done their futile best to tarnish the unsoilable fame of 
Shakespeare. In that land you,—who, according to your 
own showing, started for the race of life full of high hopes 
and inspiration to still higher endeavor—you have been 
poisoned by the tainted atmosphere of Atheism which is 
slowly and insidiously spreading itself through all ranks, 
particularly among the upper classes, \yho, while becoming 
every day more lax in their morals and more dissolute of 
behavior, consider themselves far too wise apd ‘highly 
cultured’ to believe in anything. It is a most unwhole¬ 
some atmosphere, charged with the morbidities and 
microbes of national disease and downfall; it is difficult to 
breathe it without becoming fever-smitten; and in your 
denial of the divinity of Christ, I do not blame you any 
more than I would blame a poor creature struck down by 
a plague. You have caught the negative, agnostic, and 
atheistical infection from others,—it is not the natural, 
healthy condition of your temperament.” 

“ On the contrary it is, so far as that point goes,” said 
Alwyn with sudden heat—“ I tell you I am amazed,— 
utterly amazed, that you, with your intelligence, should 
uphold such a barbaric idea as the Divinity of Christ I 
Human reason revolts at it,—and after all, make as 


~'ABDATlfr 29 

light of it as yon will, reason is the only thing that 
exalts us a little above the level of the beasts.” 

“ Nay—the beasts share the gift of reason in common 
with us,” replied Heliobas, “and Man only proves 
his ignorance if lie denies the fact. Often indeed the 
very insects show superior reasoning ability to our¬ 
selves, any thoroughly capable naturalist would bear 
me out in this assertion.” 

“Well, well! ” and Alwyn grew impatient—“reasonor 
no reason, I again repeat that the legend on which 
Christianity is founded is absurd and preposterous,—why, 
it there were a grain of truth in it, Judas Iscariot instead 
of being universally condemned, ought to be honored and 
canonized as the first of saints ! ” 

“ Must I remind you of your early lesson days ? ” asked 
Heliobas mildly. “You will find it written in a Book 
you appear to have forgotten, that Christ expressly proph¬ 
esied,‘Woe to that man ’ by whom He was betrayed. 
I tell, you, little as you credit it, there is not a word that 
the Sinless One uttered while on this earth, that has not 
been or shall not be in time fulfilled. But I do not wish 
to enter into any controversies with you ; you have told 
me your story,—I have heard it with interest,—and I 
may add with sympathy. You are a poet, struck dumb 
by Materialism because you lacked strength to resist the 
shock,—you would fain recover your singing-speech— 
and this is in truth the reason why you have come to me. 
You think that if you could gain some of the strange 
experiences which others have had while under my in¬ 
fluence, you might win back your lost inspiration— 
though you do not know why you think this—neither do 
I—I can only guess.” 

“And your guess is . . . ?” demanded Alwyn with an 
air of affected indifference. 

“That some higher influence is working for your 
rescue and safety,” replied Heliobas. “ What influence 
I dare not presume to imagine, but—there are always 
angels near! ” 

“Angels ! ” Alwyn laughed aloud. “ How many more 
fairy tales are you going to weave for me out of your 
fertile Oriental imagination? Angels! . . See here, my 
good Heliobas, I am perfectly willing to grant tlmt you 
may be a very clever man with an odd prejudice in favor 
of Christianity,—but I must request that you will not 


30 


ARDATR. 


talk to me of angels and spirits or any such nonsense, as 
if I were a child waiting to be amused, instead of a full- 
grown man with . . .” 

“ With so full-grown an intellect that it has out-grown 
God! ” finished Heliobas serenely. “ Quite so! Yet 
angels, after all, are only immortal Souls such as yours 
or mine when set free of their earthly tenements. For 
instance, when I look at you thus,” and he raised his 
eyes with a lustrous, piercing glance—“ I see the proud, 
strong, and rebellious Angel in you far more distinctly 
than your outward shape of man . . . and you . . . when 
you look at me-” 

He broke off, for Alwyn at that moment sprang from 
his chair, and, staring fixedly at him, uttered a quick, 
fierce exclamation. 

“ Ah! I know you now! ” he cried in sudden and ex¬ 
traordinary excitement—“I know you well! We have 
met before !—Why,—after all that has passed,—do we 
meet again ? ” 

This singular speech was accompanied by a still more 
singular transfiguration of countenance—a dark, fiery 
glory burned in his eyes, and, in the stern, frowning 
wonder and defiance of his expression and attitude, there 
was something grand yet terrible,—menacing yet super- 
naturally sublime. He stood so for an instant’s space, 
majestically sombre, like some haughty, discrowned 
emperor confronting his conqueror,—a rumbling, long- 
continued roll of thunder outside seemed to recall him 
to himself, and he pressed his hand tightly down over 
his eyelids, as though to shut out some overwhelming 
vision. After a pause he looked up again,—wildly, con¬ 
fusedly,—almost beseechingly,—and Ileliobas, observing 
this, rose and advanced toward him. 

“ Peace! ” he said, in low, impressive tones,—“ we 
have recognized each other,—but on earth such recogni¬ 
tions are brief and soon forgotten! ” He waited for a 
few seconds,—then resumed lightly, “ Come, look at me 
now! . . . what do you see ? ” 

“Nothing . . but yourself! ” he replied, sighing deeply 
as he spoke—“ yet . . oddly enough, a moment ago I 
fancied you had altogether a different appearance,—and I 
thought I saw ... no matter what ! . . . I cannot de¬ 
scribe it! ” His brows contracted in a puzzled line. “ It 
was a curious phenomenon—very curious 4 * * and it 


ARDATB. 


31 


affected me strangely . . . he stopped abruptly,—then 
added, with a slight flush of annoyance on his face, “I 
perceive you are an adept in the art of optical illusion ! ” 
Heliobas laughed softly. “ Of course! What else can 
you expect of a charlatan, a trickster, and a monk to 
boot! Deception, deception throughout, my dear sir! . . . 
and have you not as/ced to be deceived ? ” 

There was a fine, scarcely perceptible satire in his man¬ 
ner ; he glanced at the tall oaken clock that stood in one 
corner of the room—its hands pointed to eleven. “ Now, 
Mr. Alwyn,” he went on, “ I think we have talked quite 
enough for this evening, and my advice is, that you retire 
to rest, and think over what I have said to you. I am 
willing to help you if I can,—but with your beliefs, or 
rather your non-beliefs, I do not hesitate to tell you frankly 
that the exertion of my internal force upon yours in your 
present condition might be fraught with extreme danger 
and suffering. You have spoken of Truth, ‘the deathful 
Truth ’; this being, however, nothing but Truth according 
to the world’s opinion, which changes with every passing 
generation, and therefore is not Truth at all. There is 
another Truth—the everlasting Truth—the pivot of all 
life, which never changes; and it is with this alone that 
my science deals. Were I to set you at liberty as you 
desire,—were your intelligence too suddenly awakened to 
the blinding awfulness of your mistaken notions of life, 
death, and futurity, the result might be more overpowering 
than either you or I can imagine! I have told you what 
I can do,—your incredulity does not alter the fact of my 
capacity. I can sever you,—that is, your Soul, which 
you cannot define, but which nevertheless exists,—from 
your body, like a moth from its chrysalis; but I dare not 
even picture to myself what scorching flame the moth 
might not heedlessly fly into! You might in your tem¬ 
porary state of release find that new impetus to your, 
thoughts you so ardently desire, or you might not,—in 
short, it is impossible to form a guess as to whether your 
experience might be one of supernal ecstasy or in¬ 
conceivable horror.” He paused a moment,—Alwyn was 
watching him with a close intentness that bordered on 
fascination and presently he continued, “ It is best from 
all points of view, that you should consider the mattei 
more thoroughly than you have yet done; think it ovei 


82 


ardath . 


well and carefully until this time to-morrow—then, if you 
are quite resolved-” 

“ I am resolved now /” said Alwyn slowly and determi¬ 
nate^. “ If you are so certain of your influence, come! 
. . . unbar my chains! . . . open the prison-door! Let 
me go hence to-night; there is no time like the present! ” 

“ To-night! ” and Heliobas turned his keen, bright eyes 
full upon him, with a look of amazement and reproach— 
“ To-night! without faith, preparation or prayer, you are 
willing to be tossed through the realms of space like a 
grain of dust in a whirling tempest ? Beyond the glitter¬ 
ing gyration of unnumbered stars—through the sword¬ 
like flash of streaming comets—through darkness— 
through light—through depths of profoundest silence—• 
over heights of vibrating sound—you —you will dare to 
wander in these God-invested regions—you a blasphemer 
and a doubter of God! ” 

His voice thrilled with passion,—his aspect was so 
solemn, and earnest, and imposing that Alwyn, awed and 
startled, remained for a moment mute—then, lifting his 
head proudly, answered— 

“ Yes, I dare ! If I am immortal I will test my immor¬ 
tality! I will face God and find these angels you talk 
about! What shall prevent me ? ” 

“ Find the angels ! ” Heliobas surveyed him sadly as 
he spoke. “ Nay!. . pray rather that they may find thee!” 
He looked long and steadfastly at Alwyn’s countenance, 
on which there was just then the faint glimmer of a rather 
mocking smile,—and as he looked, his own face darkened 
suddenly into an expression of vague trouble and uneasi¬ 
ness—and a strange quiver passed visibly through him 
from head to foot. 

“ You are bold, Mr. Alwyn,”—he said at last, moving a 
little away from his guest and speaking with some ap¬ 
parent effort—“ bold to a fault, but at the same time you 
are ignorant of all that lies behind the veil of the Unseen. 
I should be much to blame if I sent you hence to-night, 
utterly unguided—utterly uninstructed. I myself must 
think—and pray—before I venture to incur so terrible a 
responsibility. To-morrow perhaps—to-night, no ! I 
cannot—moreover I will not! ” 

Alwyn flushed hotly with anger. “Trickster!” he 
thought. “ He feels he has no power over me, and ho 
fears to run the risk of failure! ” 


ARDATEC. 


33 


“ Bid I hear you aright ? ” he said aloud in cold de¬ 
termined accents. “You cannot? you will not? . . . By 
Heaven!”—and his voice rose, “ I say you shall!” As 
he uttered these words a rush of indescribable sensations 
overcame him,—he seemed all at once invested with some 
mysterious, invincible, supreme authority,—he felt twice 
a man and more than half a god, and moved by an irre¬ 
sistible impulse which he could neither explain nor con¬ 
trol, he made two or three hasty steps forward,—whei? 
Ileliobas, swiftly retreating, waved him off with an elo 
quent gesture of mingled appeal and menace. 

“ Back ! back! ” he cried warningly. “ If you come' 
one inch nearer to me I cannot answer for your safety— 
hack, I say! Good God! you do not know your own 
power! ” 

Alwyn scarcely heeded him,—some fatal attraction drew 
him on, and he still advanced, when all suddenly he 
paused, trembling violently. His nerves began to throb 
acutely,—the blood in his veins was like fire,—there was 
a curious strangling tightness in his throat that inter¬ 
rupted and oppressed his breathing,—he stared straight 
before him with large, luminous, impassioned eyes. What 
—what was that dazzling something in the air that 
flashed and whirled and shone like glittering wheels of 
golden flame ? His lips parted ... he stretched out his 
hands in the uncertain manner of a blind man feeling his 
way . . . “ Oh God! . . . God ! ”... he muttered as 
though stricken by some sudden amazement,—then, with 
a smothered, gasping cry, he staggered and fell heavily 
forward on the floor—insensible ! 

At the self-same instant the window blew open with a 
loud crash—it swung backward and forward on its hinges, 
and a torrent of rain poured through it slantwise into the 
room. A remarkable change had taken place in the 
aspect and bearing of Ileliobas,—he stood as though 
rooted to the spot, trembling from head to fc it,—he had 
lost all his usual composure,—he was deathly pale, and 
breathed with difficulty. Presently recovering himself a 
little he strove to shut the swinging casement, but the 
wind was so boisterous, that he had to pause a moment to 
gain strength for the effort, and instinctively he glanced 
out at the tempestuous night. The clouds were scurrying 
over the sky like great black vessels on a foaming sea,— 
the lightning flashed incessantly, and the thunder rever- 


ART) A TIT. 


berated over tlie mountains in tremendous volleys as of 
besieging cannon. Stinging drops of icy sleet dashed his 
face and the front of his white garb as he inhaled the 
stormy freshness of the strong, upward-sweeping blast 
for a few seconds—and then, with the air of one gathering 
together all his scattered forces, he shut to the window 
firmly and barred it across. Turning now to the un¬ 
conscious Alwyn, he lifted him from the floor to a low 
couch near at hand, and there laid him gently down. 
This done, he stood looking at him with an expression of 
the deepest anxiety, but made no attempt to rouse him 
from his death-like swoon. His own habitual serenity 
was completely broken through,—he had all the appear¬ 
ance of having received some unexpected and overwhelm¬ 
ing shock,—his very lips were blanched and quivered 
nervously. 

He waited for several minutes, attentively watching the 
recumbent figure before him, till gradually,—very gradu¬ 
ally,—that figure took upon itself the pale, stern beauty 
of a corpse from which life has but recently and pain¬ 
lessly departed. The limbs grew stiff and rigid—the 
features smoothed into that mysteriously wise placidity 
which is so often seen in the faces of the dead,—the 
closed eyelids looked purple and livid as though bruised 
. . . there was not a breath, not a tremor, to offer any 
outward suggestion of returning animation,—and when, 
after some little time, Heiiobas bent down and listened, 
there was no pulsation of the heart ... it had ceased to 
beat! To all appearances Awlyn was dead —any physi¬ 
cian would have certified the fact, though how he had 
come by his death there was no evidence to show. And 
in that condition, . . . stirless, breathless . . . white as 
marble, cold and inanimate as stone, Heiiobas left him. 
Not in indifference, but in sure knowledge—knowledge 
far beyond all mere medical science—that the senseless 
clay would in due time again arise to life and motion; 
that the casket was but temporarily bereft of its jewel,— 
and that the jewel itself, the Soul of the Poet, had by a 
superhuman access of will, managed to break its bonds 
and escape elsewhere. But whither? . . . Into what 
vast realms of translucent light or drear shadow ? . . . 
This was a question to which the mystic monk, gifted as 
he was with a powerful spiritual insight into “ things un¬ 
seen and eternal,” could find no satisfactory answer, and 


ABDATH. 


35 


in his anxious perplexity he betook himself to the chapel, 
and there, by the red glimmer of the crimson star that 
shone dimly above the altar, he knelt alone and prayed 
in silence till the heavy night had passed, and the storm 
had slain itself with the sword of its own fury on the dark 
slopes of the Pass of Dariel. 


CHAPTER IV. 

“angelus domine.” 

The next morning dawned pallidly over a sea of gray 
mist—not a glimpse of the landscape was visible—nothing 
but a shadowy vastness of floating vapor that moved 
slowly fold upon fold, w^ave upon wave, as though bent 
on blotting out the world. A very faint, chill light peered 
through the narrow arched window of the room where 
Alwyn lay, still wrapped in that profound repose, so like 
the last long sleep from which some of our modern 
scientists tell us there can be no awakening. His con¬ 
dition was unchanged,—the wan beams of the early day 
falling cross his features intensified their waxen stillness 
and pallor,—the awful majesty of death was on him,—the 
pathetic helplessness and perishableness of Body without 
Spirit. Presently the monastery bell began to ring for 
matins, and as its clear chime struck through the deep 
silence, the door opened, and Heliobas, accompanied by 
another monk, whose gentle countenance and fine, soft 
eyes, betokened the serenity of his disposition, en tered the 
apartment. Together they approached the couch, and 
gazed long and earnestly at the supernaturally slumber¬ 
ing man. 

“ He is still far away! ” said Heliobas at last, sighing 
as he spoke. “So far away that my mind misgives 
me. . . . Alas, Hilarion! how limited is our knowl¬ 
edge ! . . . even with all the spiritual aids of spiritual 
' life how little can be accomplished! We learn one thing, 
and another presents itself—w r e conquer one difficulty, 
and another instantly springs up to obstruct our path. 
Now if I had only had the innate perception required to 
foresee the possible flight of this released Immortal 
creature, might I not have saved it from some incalculable 
, misery and suffering ? ” 


AEDATnr 


S6 

“ I think not,” answered in rather musing accents the 
monk called Hilarion—“ I think not. Such protection 
can never be exercised by mere human intelligence: if 
this soul is to be saved or shielded in its invisible journey¬ 
ing it will be by some means that not all the marvels of 
our science can calculate. You say he was without faith ? ” 

“ Entirely.” 

“ What was his leading principle? ” 

“ A desire for what he called Truth,” replied Heliobas. 
« He, like many others of his class, never took the trouble 
to consider very deeply the inner meaning of Pilate’s 
famous question, ‘What is Truth?’ We know what it 
is, as generally accepted—a few so-called facts which in a 
thousand years will all be contradicted, mixed up with a 
few finite opinions propounded by unstable-minded men. 
In brief, Truth, according to the world, is simply what¬ 
ever the world is pleased to consider as Truth for the time, 
being. ’Tis a somewhat slight thing to stake one’s im¬ 
mortal destinies upon! ” 

Hilarion raised one of Alwyn’s cold, pulseless hands— 
it was stiff, and white as marble. 

“ I suppose,” he said, “ there is no doubt of his returning 
hither?” 

“ None whatever,” answered Heliobas decisively. “ His 
life on earth is assured for many years yet,—inasmuch as 
his penance is not finished, his recompense not won. 
Thus far my knowledge of his fate is certain.” 

“Then you will bring him back to-day?” pursued 
Hilarion. 

“ Bring him back ? I ? I cannot! ” said Heliobas, with 
a touch of sad humility in his tone. “And for this very 
reason I feared to send him hence,—and would not have 
done so,—not without preparation at any rate,—could I 
have had my way. His departure was more strange than 
any I have ever known—moreover, it was his own doing, 
not mine. I had positively refused to exert my influence 
upon him, because I felt he was *not in my sphere, and 
that therefore neither I nor any of those higher intelli¬ 
gences with which I am in communication could control or 
guide his wanderings. He, however, was as positively 
determined that I should exert it—and to this end he 
suddenly concentrated all the pent-up fire of his nature in 
one rapid effort of Will, and advanced upon me. ... I 
warned him, but in vain! quick as lightning flash meets 


ARDATH. 


37 

lightning flash, the two invisible Immortal Forces within 
ns sprang into instant opposition,—with this difference, 
that while he was ignorant and unconscious of his power, 
I was cognizant and fully conscious of mine. Mine was 
focused, as it were, upon him,—his was untrained and 
scattered,—the result was that mine won the victory: yet 
understand me well, Hilarion,—if I could have held my¬ 
self in, I would have done so. It was he,—he who drew 
my force out of me as one would draw a sword out of its 
scabbard—the sword may be ever so stiffly fixed in its 
sheath, but the strong hand will wrench it forth some¬ 
how, and use it for battle when needed.” 

“ Then,” said Hilarion wonderingly, “ you admit this 
man possesses a power greater than your own ? ” 

“ Aye, if he knew it! ” returned Ileliobas, quietly. 
“ But he does not know. Only an angel could teach him 
—and in angels he does not believe.” 

“ He may believe now. . . .! ” 

“ He may. He will—he must, . . . if he has gone where 
I would have him go.” 

“ A poet, is he not! ” queried Hilarion softly, bending 
down to look more attentively at the beautiful Anti- 
nous-like face colorless and cold as sculptured alabaster. 

“ An uncrowned monarch of a world of song! ” responded 
Heliobas, with a tender inflection in his rich voice. “ A 
genius such as the earth sees but once in a century! But 
he has been smitten with the disease of unbelief and 
deprived of hope,—and where there is no hope there is no 
lasting accomplishment.” lie paused, and with a touch 
as gentle as a woman’s, rearranged the cushions under 
Alwyn’s heavy head, and laid his hand in grave benedic¬ 
tion on the broad white brow shaded by its clustering 
waves of dark hair. “ May the Infinite Love bring him 
out of danger into peace and safety ! ” he said solemnly, 
—then turning away, he took his companion by the arm, 
and they both left the room, closing the door quietly behind 
them. The chapel bell went on tolling slowly, slowly, 
sending muffled echoes through the fog for some minutes 
—then it ceased, and profound stillness reigned. 

The monastery was always a very silent habitation,— 
situated as it was on so lofty and barren a crag, it was far 
beyond the singing-reach of the smaller sweet-throated 
birds—now and then an eagle clove the mist with a whirr 
oi Wings and a disco^danl scream on his way toward some 



38 


AllDATH. 


distant mountain eyrie—but no other sound of awakening 
life broke the hush of the slowly widening dawn. An 
hour passed—and Alwyn still remained in the same posi¬ 
tion,—as pallidly quiescent as a corpse stretched out for 
burial. By and by a change began to thrill mysteriously 
Mirougli the atmosphere, like the flowing of amber wine 
through crystal—the heavy vapors shuddered together as 
though suddenly lashed by a whip of flame,—they rose, 
swayed to and fro, and parted asunder .... then, dissolv¬ 
ing into thin, milk-white veils of fleecy film, they floated 
away, disclosing as they vanished, the giant summits of 
the encircling mountains, that lifted themselves to the 
light, one above another, in the form of frozen billows. 
Over these a delicate pink flush flitted in tremulous wavy 
lines—long arrows of gold began to pierce the tender shim¬ 
mering blue of the sky—soft puffs of cloud tinged with 
vivid crimson and pale green were strewn along the eastern 
horizon like flowers in the path of an advancing hero,— 
and then all at once there was a slight cessation of move¬ 
ment in the heavens—an attentive pause as though the 
whole universe waited for some great splendor as yet un¬ 
revealed. That splendor came: in a red blaze of triumph 
the Sun rose, pouring a shower of beamy brilliancy oveu* 
the white vastness of the heights covered with perpetual 
snow,—jagged peaks, sharp as scimetars and sparkling 
with ice, caught fire, and seemed to melt away in an 
absorbing sea of radiance, . . .the waiting clouds moved 
on, redecked in deeper hues of royal purple—and the ful l 
Morning glory was declared. As the dazzling effulgence 
streamed through the window and flooded the couch where 
Alywn lay, a faint tinge of color returned to his face,—his 
lips moved,—his broad chest heaved with struggling sighs, 
—his eyelids quivered,—and his before rigid hands relaxed 
and folded themselves together in an attitude of peace 
and prayer. Like a statue becoming slowly and magically 
flushed with life, the warn hues of the naturally flowing 
blood deepened through the whiteness of his skin,—his 
breathing grew more and more easy and regular,—his 
features gradually assumed their wonted appearance, and 
presently . . . without any violent start or exclamation 
... he awoke! But was it a real awakening ?—or rather 
* continuation of some strange impression received in 
Member ? 

fie rose to his feet, pushing back the hair from his brow 


ARDATH. 


39 


with an entranced look of listening wonderment—his eyes 
were humid yet brilliant—his whole aspect was that of one 
inspired. He paced once or twice up and down the room, 
but he was evidently unconscious of his surroundings— 
he seemed possessed by thoughts which absorbed his 
whole being. Presently he seated himself at the table, 
and absently fingering the writing materials that were' 
upon it, he appeared meditatively to question their use 
and meaning. Then, drawing several sheets of paper to¬ 
ward him, he began to write with extraordinary rapidity 
and eagerness—his pen travelled on smoothly, uninter¬ 
rupted by blot or erasure. Sometimes he paused—but 
when he did it was always with an upraised, attentively 
listening expression. Once he murmured aloud “ Ardath ! 
Nay, I shall not forget!—we will meet at Ardath!” and 
again he resumed his occupation. Page after page he 
covered with close writing—no weak, uncertain scrawl, 
but a firm bold, neat caligraphy,—his own peculiar, charac¬ 
teristic hand. The sun mounted higher and higher in the 
heavens, . . . hour after hour passed, and still he wrote on, 
apparently unaware of the flitting time. At mid-day the 
bell, which had not rung since early dawn, began to swing 
quickly to and fro in the chapel turret,—the deep bass of 
ithe organ breathed on the silence a thunderous monotone, 
and a bee-like murmur of distant voices proclaimed the 
words: “ Angelas Domine mmtiavit MariceP 

At the first sound of this chant, the spell that en¬ 
chained Alwyn’s mind was broken ; drawing a quick 
dashing line under what he had written, he sprang up 
erect and dropped his pen. 

“ Heliobas! ” he cried loudly, “ Ideliobas ! Where is 
the field of Ardath f ” 

His voice seemed strange and unfamiliar to his own ears, 
—he waited, listening, and the chant went on—“ Et Verbo 
caro f actus est , et habitavit in nobis.” 

Suddenly, as if he could endure his solitude no longer, 
he rushed to the door and threw it open, thereby nearly 
flinging himself against Heliobas, who was entering the 
room at the same moment. He drew back,. . . stared 
wildly, and passing his hand across his forehead con¬ 
fusedly, forced a laugh. 

“ I have been dreaming ! ” he said, . . . then with a 
passionate gesture he added, “God! if the dream were 
true! ” 


40 


abdath; 


He was strongly excited, and Heliobas, slipping one 
arm round him in a friendly manner, led him back to the 
chair he had vacated, observing him closely as he did 
so. 

“Yon call this dreaming,” he inquired with a slight 
smile, pointing to the table strewn with manuscript on 
which the ink was not yet dry. “ Then dreams are more 
productive than active exertion! Here is goodly matter 
for printers! . . . a fair result it seems of one morning's 
labor!” 

Alwyn started up, seized the written sheets, and 
scanned them eagerly. 

“It is my handwriting 1” he muttered in a tone of 
stupefied amazement. 

“Of course! Whose handwriting should it be?” re¬ 
turned Heliobas, watching him with scientifically keen, 
yet kindly interest. 

“ Then it is true ! ” he exclaimed. “ True—by the 
sweetness of her eyes,—true, by the love-lit radiance of 
her smile I—true, O thou God whom I dared to doubt! 
true by the marvels of Thy matchless wisdom ! ” 

And with this strange outburst, he began to read in 
feverish haste what he had written. His breath came 
and went quickly,—his cheeks flushed, his eyes dilated, 
—line after line he perused with apparent wonder and 
rapture,—when suddenly interrupting himself he raised 
his head and recited in a half whisper: 

“ With thundering notes of song sublime 
I cast my sins away from me,— 

On stairs of sound I mount—I climb 1 
The angels wait and pray for me 1 

“ I heard that stanza somewhere when I was a boy, . . 
why do I think of it now ? She has waited,—so she said, 

■—these many thousand days ! ” 

He paused meditatively,—and then resumed his read¬ 
ing. Heliobas touched his arm. 

“ It will take you some time to read that, Mr. Alwyn,” 
he gently observed. “ You have written more than you 
know.” 

Alwyn roused himself and looked straight at the 
speaker. Putting down his manuscript and resting one 
hand upon it, he gazed with an air of solemn inquiry into 
the noble face turned steadfastly towaxxl his own, 


ARDATIT. 


41 

“Tell me,” he said wistfully, “how has it happened? 
This composition is mine and yet not mine. For it is a 
grand and perfect poem of which I dare not call myself 
the author 1 I might as well snatch Her crown of starry 
flowers and call myself an Angel! ” 

He spoke with mingled fervor and humility. To any 
ordinary observer he would have seemed to be laboring 
under some strange hallucination,—but Heliobas was 
more deeply instructed. 

“ Come, come !■.... your thoughts are wide of this 
world,” he said kindly. “ Try to recall them! I can tell 
you nothing, for I know nothing .... you have been 
absent many hours.” 

“ Absent ? yes! ” and Alwyn’s voice thrilled with an 
infinite regret. “ Absent from earth . . ah! would to God 
I might have stayed with her, in Heaven! My love, my 
love! . . where shall I find her if not in the field of 
Ardath f ” - 


CHAPTER Y. 

A MYSTIC TEYST. 

As he uttered the last words, his eyes darkened into a 
soft expression of musing tenderness, and he remained 
silent for many minutes, during which the entranced* 
almost unearthly beauty of his face underwent a gradual 
change . . . the mystic light that had for a time transfig¬ 
ured it, faded and died away—and by degrees he recovered 
all his ordinary self-possession. Presently glancing at 
Heliobas, who stood patiently waiting till he should have 
overcome whatever emotions w r ere at work in his mind, 
he smiled. 

“You must think me mad!” he said. “Perhaps I 
am,—but if so, it is the madness of love that has seized 
me. Love! . . it is a passion I have never known be¬ 
fore . . I have used it as a mere thread whereon to string 
madrigals . . a background of uncertain tint serving to 
show off the brighter hues of Poesy—but now! . . now I 
am enslaved and bound, conquered and utterly subdued 
by love! .... love for the sweetest, queenliest, most 
radiant creature that ever captured or commanded the. 
t worship of man! I may seem mad—but I know lam 




42 


A It DA TH. 


sane—I realize the actual things of this world about me 
mind is—my clear, my thoughts are collected, and yet I 
repeat, I love! . . . aye ! with all the force and fervor of 
this strongly heating human heart of mine;”—and he 
touched his breast as he spoke. “ And it comes to this, 
most wise and worthy Heliobas,—if your spells have con¬ 
jured up this vision of immortal youth and grace and 
purity that has suddenly assumed such sovereignty over 
my life—then you must do something further, . . . you 
must find, or teach me how to find, the living Reality of 
my Dream! ” 

Heliobas surveyed him with some wonder and com¬ 
miseration. 

“ A moment ago and you yourself declared your dream 
was true ! ” he observed. “ This,” and he pointed to the 
manuscript on the table, “seemed to you sufficient to 
prove it. Now you have altered your opinion: . . . 
Why ? I have worked no spells upon you, and I am en¬ 
tirely ignorant as to what your recent experience has been. 
Moreover, what do you mean by a ‘ living Reality ’ ? The 
flesh and blood, bone and substance that perishes in a 
brief seventy years or so and crumbles into indistinguish¬ 
able dust? Surely, ... if, as I conjecture from your 
words, you have seen one of the fair inhabitants of higher 
spheres than ours, . . you would not drag her spiritual 
and death-unconscious brightness down to the level of the 
‘ reality of a merely human life ? Nay, if you would, you 
could not! ” 

Alwyn looked at him inquiringly and with a perplexed 
air. 

“ You speak in enigmas,” he said somewhat vexedly. 
“However, the whole thing is an enigma and would 
puzzle the most sagacious head. That the physical 
workings of the brain, in a state of trance, should arouse 
in me a passion of love for an imaginary being, and, at the 
same time, enable me to write a poem such as must make 
the fame of any man, is certainly a remarkable and note¬ 
worthy result of scientific mesmerism ! ” 

“ Now, my dear sir,” interrupted Heliobas in a tone of 
good-natured remonstrance,—“ do not—if you have any 
respect for science at all—do not, I beg of you, talk to me 
of the ‘ physical workings’ of a dead brain f ” 

“ A dead brain! ” echoed Alwyn. “ What do you 
mean ? ” 


ARDATH. 


43 


“ What I say,” returned Heliobas, composedly. 
“ ‘ Physical workings ’ of any kind are impossible unless 
the motive power of physical life be in action. You, 
regarded as a human creature merely, had during sever 
hours practically ceased to be, —the vital principle no 
longer existed in your body, having taken its departure 
together with its inseparable companion, the Soul. When 
it returned, it set the clockwork of your material mechan¬ 
ism in motion again, obeying the sovereignty of the 
Spirit that sought to express by material means, the 
utterance of heaven-inspired thought. Thus your hand 
mechanically found its way to the pen—thus you wrote, 
unconscious of what you were writing, yielding yourself 
entirely to the guidance of the spiritual part of your 
nature, which at that particular juncture was absolutely 
predominant, though now weighted anew by earthy in¬ 
fluences it has partially relaxed its supernal sway. All 
this I readily perceive and understand . . . but what you 
did, and where you were conducted during the time of 
your complete severance from the tenement of clay in 
which you are again imprisoned, .... this I have yet to 
learn.” 

While Heliobas was speaking, Alwyn’s countenance had 
grown vaguely troubled, and now into his deep poetic 
* 3 yes there came a look of sudden penitence. 

“ True! ” he said softly, almost humbly, “ I will tell you 
everything while I remember it,—though it is not likely I 
v^hall ever forget! I believe there must be some truth 
•after all in what you say concerning the Soul, ... at any 
rate, I do not at present feel inclined to call your theories 
in question. To begin with, I find myself unable alto¬ 
gether to explain what it was that happened to me during 
my conversation with you last night. It was a very strange 
sensation! I recollect that I had expressed a wish to be 
placed under your magnetic or electric influence, and that 
! you had refused my request. Then an odd idea suggested 
i itself to me—namely, that I could if I chose compel your 
assent,—and, filled with this notion, I think I addressed 
! you, or was about to address you, in a rather peremptory 
manner, when—all at once—a flash of blinding light 
struck me fiercely across the eyes like a scourge! Stung 
with the hot pain, and dazzled by the glare, I turned away 
from you and fled ... or so it seemed—fled on my own 
instinctive impulse . . ? into darkness!” 


44 


ARDATH. 


He paused and drew a long, shuddering breath, like one 
who has narrowly escaped imminent destruction. 

“ Darkness ! ” he went on in low accents that thrilled 
with the memory of a past fear—“ dense, horrible, fright¬ 
ful darkness!—darkness that palpitated heavily with the 
labored motion-of unseen things!—darkness that clung 
and closed about me in masses of clammy, tangible thick¬ 
ness,—its advancing and resistless weight rolled over me 
like a huge waveless ocean,—and, absorbed within it, L 
was drawn down—down—down toward some hidden, 
impalpable but All-Supreme Agony, the dull unceasing 
throbs of which 1 felt, yet could not name. ‘ 0 God! ’ 
1 cried aloud, abandoning myself to wild despair, ‘ 0 God! 
Where are Thou ? ’ Then I heard a great rushing sound 
as of a strong wind beaten through with wings, and a 
Voice, grand and sweet as a golden trumpet blown sud¬ 
denly in the silence of night, answered : * Here! . . . and 
Everywhere /’ With that, a slanting stream of opaline 
radiance cleft the gloom with the sweep of a sword-blade, 
and I was caught up quickly . . I know not how . . for I 
saw nothing! ” 

Again he paused and looked wistfully at Heliobas, who 
in turn regarded him with gentle steadfastness. 

“ It was wonderful—terrible! ” ... he continued slowly 
—“ yet beautiful! . . that Invisible Strength that rescued, 
surrounded, and uplifted me; and—” here he hesitated, 
and a faint flush colored his cheeks and stole up to the 
roots of his clustering hair—“ dream or no dream, I feel 
I cannot now altogether reject the idea of an existing 
Divinity. In brief . . I believe in God! ” 

“ Why ? ” asked Heliobas quietly. 

Alwyn met his gaze frankly and with a soft brightening 
of his handsome features. 

“ I cannot give you any logical reasons,” he said. “ More¬ 
over, logical reasoning would nob now affect me in a matter 
which seems to me more full of conviction than any logic.. 
I believe, .... simply because I believe! ” 

Heliobas smiled—a very warm and kindly smile—but 
said nothing, and Alwyn resumed his narrative. 

“ As I tell you, I was caught up,—snatched out of that 
black profundity with inconceivable swiftness,—and when, 
the ascending movement ceased, I found myself floating- 
lightly like a wiiid-blown leaf through twining arches of' 
^-mber mist, colored here and there with rays of livings 


‘ARDATtT. 


[45 

flame ... I heard whispers, and fragments of song and 
speech, all sweeter than the sweetest of our known music, 
. . and still I saw nothing. Presently some one called me 
by name— 4 Theos / . . Theos ! ’ I strove to answer, but 
I had no words wherewith to match that silver-toned, far- 
reaching utterance; and once again the rich vibrating 
notes pealed through the vaporous fire-tinted air— 4 Theos , 
my Beloved! Higher! . . higher / ’ . . All my being 
thrilled and quivered to that call. . I yearned to obey . . 
I struggled to rise—my efforts were in vain; when, to my 
joy and wonder, a small, invisible hand, delicate yet strong, 
clasped mine, and I was borne aloft with breathless, inde- 
cribable, lightning-like rapidity—on . . . on . . . and ever 
upward, till at last, alighting on a smooth, fair turf, thick- 
grown with fragrant blossoms of strange loveliness and 
soft hues, I beheld Her! . . and she bade me welcome.” 

44 And who,” questioned Heliobas, in tones of hushed 
reverence, 44 Who was this Being that thus enchants your 
memory ? ” 

44 1 know not! ” replied Alwyn, with a dreamy smile of 
rapture on his lips and in his eyes. 44 And yet her face 
... oh ! the entrancing beauty of that face ! . . . was not 
altogether unfamiliar. I felt that I must have loved and 
lost "her ages upon ages ago! Crowned with white flowers, 
and robed in a garb that seemed spun from midsummer 
moonbeams, she stood ... a smiling Maiden-Sweetness in 
a paradise of glad sights and sounds, . . ah! Eve, with 
the first sunrise radiance on her brows, was not more 
divinely fair! . . Venus, new-springing from the silver 
sea-foam, was not more queenly glorious ! 4 1 will remind 

thee of all thou hast forgotten] she said, and I understood 
oer soft, half-reproachful accents. 4 It is not yet too late ! 
Thou hast lost much and suffered much , and thou hast 
blindly erred, hut notwithstanding all these things , thou art 
my Beloved since these many thousand days ! ’ ” 

44 Days—which the world counts as years ! ” murmured 
Heliobas. 44 You saw no one but her ?” 

44 No one—we were alone together. A vast woodland 
stretched before us, . . . she took my hand and led me 
beneath broad-arching trees to where a lake, silvered by 
some strange radiance, glittered diamond-like in the stir¬ 
ring of a balmy wind. Here she bade me rest—and sank 
gently on the flowery bank beside me. Then viewing her 
more closely I gueatly feared her beauty—for I saw a 


46 


Am Am. 


wondrous halo wide and dazzling—a golden aureole that 
spread itself around her in scintillating points of light— 
light that reflected itself also on me and bathed me in 
its luminous splendor. And as I gazed at her in speech¬ 
less awe, she leaned toward me nearer and nearer, her 
deep, pure eyes burning softly into mine . . . her hands 
touched me—her arms closed round me . . her bright 
head lay in all its shining loveliness on my breast! A 
tremulous ecstasy thrilled me as with fire ... I gazed 
upon her as one might gaze on some fluttering, rare- 
plumaged bird ... I dare not move or speak ... I 
drank her sweetness down into my soul! Now and then 
a sound as of distant harps playing broke the love- 
weighted silence . . . and thus we remained together a 
heavenly breathing-space of wordless rapture; till sud¬ 
denly and swiftly, as though she had received an in¬ 
visible summons, she arose, her looks expressing a saintly 
patience, and laying her two hands upon my brows— 

‘ Write,’ she said, ‘ Write and proclaim a message of hope 
to the sorrowful Star ! Write and let thine utterance be a 
true echo of the eternal 7nusic with which these spheres are 
filled! Write to the rhythmic beat of the harmonies 
within thee . . . for lo! once more as in aforetime my 
changeless love renews in thee the power of perfect song I ’ 
With that she moved away serenely and beckoned me to 
follow ... I obeyed in haste and trembling . . . long 
rays of rosy light swept after her like trailing wings, and 
as she walked, the golden nimbus round her form glowed 
with a thousand brilliant and changeful hues like the 
rainbows seen in the spray of falling water! Through 
lush green grass thick with blossom,—under groves heavy 
with fragrant leaves and laden with the songs of birds . . 
over meadows cool and mountain-sheltered, on we went— 
she, like the goddess of advancing Spring, I eagerly 
treading in her radiant footsteps . . and presently we 
came to a place where two paths met, . . one all over¬ 
grown with azure and white flowers, that ascended away 
and away into undiscerned distance, . . . the other slop¬ 
ing deeply downward, and full of shadows, yet dimly 
illumined by a pale, mysterious splendor like frosty 
moonlight streaming on sad-colored seas. Here she 
turned and faced me, and I saw her divine eyes droop 
with the moisture of unshed tears. ‘ Theos ! . . Theos l ’ 
, she cried, and the passionate cadence of her voice was 


ARDATH. 


47 


as the singing of a nightingale in lonely woodlands . . . 
‘ Again . . again we must part ! . . . Part ! . . oh, my 
Beloved ! . . my Beloved! How long wilt thou sever me from 
thy soul and leave me alone and sorrowful amid the joys of 
Heaven V As she thus spoke a sense of utter shame and 
loss and failure overwhelmed me, . . pierced to the very 
core of my being by an unexplained yet most bitter 
remorse, I cast myself down in deep abasement before 
her, ... I caught her glittering robe . . I strove to say 
‘ Forgive! ’ but I was speechless as a convicted traitor in 
the presence of a wronged queen! All at once the air 
about us was rent by a great noise of thunder intermin¬ 
gled with triumphal music,—she drew her sheeny garment 
from my touch in haste, and stooping to me where I 
knelt, she kissed my forehead . . ‘ Thy road lies there ’— 
she murmured in quick, soft tones, pointing to the vista 
of varying light and shadow,—‘ mine , yonder ! ’ and she 
looked toward the flower-garlanded avenue—‘ Hasten ! . . 
it is time thou wert far hence! .... return to thine own 
Star lest its portals he closed on thee forever and thou he 
plunged into deeper darkness! Seek thou the Field of 
Ardath !—as Christ lives, I will meet thee there! Fare¬ 
well!'' With these words she left me, passing away, 
arrayed in glory, treading on flowers, and ever ascending 
till she disappeared ! . . . while I, stricken with a great 
repentance, went slowly, as she bade me, down into the 
shadow, and a rippling breeze-like melody, as of harps 
and lutes most tenderly attuned, followed me as I de¬ 
scended. And now,” said Alwyn, interrupting his narra¬ 
tive and speaking with emphatic decision, “ surely there 
remains hut one thing for me to do—that is, to find the 
4 Field of Ardath! ” 

Heliobas smiled gravely. “Nay, if you consider the 
whole episode a dream,” he observed, “why trouble 
yourself? Dreams are seldom realized, .... and as to 
the name of Ardath , have you ever heard it before ? ” 

“ Never! ” replied Alwyn. “ Still—if there is such a 
place on this planet I will most certainly journey thither! 
Maybe you know something of its whereabouts ? ” 

“ Finish your story,” said Heliobas, quietly evading the 
question. “ I am curious to hear the end of your strange 
adventure.” 

“ There is not much more to tell,” and Alwyn sighed a 
little as he spoke, “I wandered further and further 


48 


ARDATH. 


into gloom, oppressed by many thoughts and troubled 
by £ue fears, till presently it grew so dark that I could 
scarcely see where I was going, though I was able to 
guide myself in the path that stretched before me by 
means of the pale luminous rays that frequently pierced F 
the deepening obscurity, and these rays I now noticed 
fell ever downwards in the form of a cross. As I went 
on I was pursued as it were by the sound of those delicate 
harmonies played on invisible, sweet strings; and after a 
while I perceived at the extreme end of the long, dim 
vista a door standing open, through which I entered and 
found myself alone in a quiet room. Here I sat down to 
rest,—the melody of the distant harps and lutes still 
floated in soft echoes on the silence . . . and presently 
words came breaking through the music, like buds break¬ 
ing from their surrounding leaves . . words that I was 
compelled to write down as quickly as I heard them ... 
and I wrote on and on, obeying that symphonious and 
rhythmical dictation with a sense of growing ease and 
pleasure, . . . when all suddenly a dense darkness over¬ 
came me, followed by a gradual dawning gray and golden 
light . . the words dispersed into fragmentary half¬ 
syllables . .the music died away, . . I started up 
amazed . . to find myself here! . . . . here in this monas¬ 
tery of Lars, listening to the chanting of the Angelus ! ” 

He ceased, and looked wistfully out through the window 
at the white encircling rim of the opposite snow-mountains, 
now bathed in the full splendor of noon. Ileliobas 
advanced and laid one hand kindly on his shoulder. . . . 

“ And do not forget,” he said, “ that you have brought 
with you from the higher regions a Poem that will in all 
probability make your fame! ‘ Fame! fame! next grand¬ 

est word to God! ’. . . so wrote one of your craft, and no 
doubt you echo the sentiment! Have you not desired to 
blazon your name on the open scroll of the world ? Well! 

. . now you can have your wish—the world waits to 
receive your signature ! ” 

“ That is all very well! ” and Alwyn smiled rather 
dubiously as he glanced at the manuscript on the table 
beside him. “ But the question is,—considering how it 
was written,—can I, dare I call this poem mine?” 

“ Most assuredly you can,” returned Ileliobas. 

“ Though your hesitation is a worthy one, and as rare as 



ARDATH. 


49 


it is worthy. Well would it be for all poets and artists 
were they to pause thus, and consider before rashly call¬ 
ing their work their own! Self-appreciation is the death¬ 
blow of genius. The poem is as much yours as your life is 
yours—no more and no less. In brief, you have recovered 
your lost inspiration; the lately dumb oracle speaks again: 
—and are you not satisfied ? ” 

“ No! ” said Alwyn quickly, with a sudden brighten¬ 
ing of his eyes as he met the keenly searching glance that 
accompanied this question. “ No ! for I love ! . . . and the 
desire of love burns in me as ardently as the desire of 
fame!” He paused, and in quieter tones continued, 
“You see I speak freely and frankly to you as though—,” 
and he laughed a little, “ as though I were a good Catholic, 
and you my father-confessor! Good heavens! if some 
of the men I know in London were to hear me, they would 
think me utterly crazed! But craze or no craze, I feel I 
shall never be satisfied now till I find out whether there 
is anywhere is the world a place called ArcJath. Can you, 
will you help me in the search ? I am almost ashamed 
■co ask you, for you have already done so much for me, 
and I really owe to your wonderful power my trance or 
soul-liberty, or whatever it may be called. . . 

“ You owe me nothing,” interposed Heliobas calmly, 
“not even thanks. Your own will accomplished your 
freedom, and I am not responsible for either your depart¬ 
ure or your return. It was a predestined occurrence, yet 
perfectly scientific and easy of explanation. Your inward 
force attracted mine down upon you in one strong current, 
with the result that your Spirit instantly parted asunder 
from your body, and in that released condition you 
experienced what you have described. But I had no 
more to do with that experience than I shall have with 
vour -journey to the ‘ field of Ardath,’ should you decide 
to go there.” 

“ There is an Ardath then! ” cried Alwyn excitedly. 

Heliobas eyed him with something of scorn. “ Natu¬ 
rally ! Are you still so much of a sceptic that you think 
an Angel would have bidden you seek a place that had no 
existence ? Oh, yes! I see you are inclined to treat your 
ethereal adventure as a mere dream,—but ./know it was 
a reality, more real than anything in this present world.” 
And turning to the loaded bookshelves he took down a 
large volume, and spread it open on ble. 

4 __ 


50 


ABBA TH. 


“ You know this book ?” he asked. 

Alwyn glanced at it. “ The Bible! Of course! ” he 
replied indifferently. “ Everybody knows it! ” 

“ Pardon! ” and Ileliobas smiled. “ It would be more 
correct to say nobody knows it. To read is not always 
to understand. There are meanings and mysteries in it 
which have never yet been penetrated, and which only the 
highest and most spiritually gifted intellects can ever hope 
to unravel. Now” . . . and he turned over the pages care¬ 
fully till he came to the one he sought, “I think there is 
something here that will interest you—listen! ” and he 
read aloud, “ ‘The Angel Uriel came unto me and said: 
Go into a field of flowers where no house is builded and 
eat only the flowers of the field—taste no flesh, drink no 
wine, but eat flowers only. And pray unto the Highest 
continually, and then will I come and talk to thee. So I 
went my way into the field which is called Ardath, . . . ’ ” 

“ The very place! ” exclaimed Alwyn, eagerly bending 
over the sacred book; then drawing back with a gesture 
of disappointment he added, “ But you are reading from 
Esdras, the Apocrypha! an utterly unreliable source ol 
information! ” 

“On the contrary, as reliable as any history ever 
written,” rejoined Heliobas calmly. “ Study it for your¬ 
self, . . . you will see that the prophet was at that time 
resident in Babylon; the field he mentions was near the 
city . . .” 

“ Yes— was ! ” interrupted Alwyn incredulously. 

“Was and is” continued Heliobas. “No earthquake 
has crumbled it, no sea has invaded it, and no house has 
been ‘ builded ’ thereon. It is, as it was then, a waste field, 
lying about four miles west of the Babylonian ruins, and 
there is nothing whatever to hinder you from journeying 
thither when you please.” 

Alwyn’s expression as he heard this was one of stupefied 
amazement. Part of his so-called “ dream ” had already 
proved itself true—a “ field of Ardath ” actually existed! 

“ You are certain of what you say ? ” he demanded. 

“ Positively certain! ” returned Heliobas. 

There was a silence, during which a little tinkling bell 
resounded in the outer corridor, followed by the tread of 
sandaled feet on the stone pavement. Ileliobas closed 
the Bible and returned it to its shelf. 

“ That was the dinner-bell,” he announced cheerfully. 


Am Am. &i 

“Will you accompany me to the refectory, Mr. Alwyn? 
... we can talk further of this matter afterwards.” 

Alwyn roused himself from the fit of abstraction into 
which he had fallen, and gathering together the loose 
sheets of his so strangely written manuscript, he arranged 
them all in an orderly heap without speaking. Then he 
looked up and met the earnest eyes of Heliobas with an ex¬ 
pression of settled resolve in his own. 

“ I shall set out for Babylon to-morrow,” he said quietly. 
“ As well go there as anywhere! . . . and on the result of 
my journey I shall stake my future! In the meantime 

-” He hesitated, then suddenly extending his hand 

with a frank grace that became him well, “ In spite of my 
brusquerie last night, I trust we are friends?” 

“ Why, most assuredly we are! ” returned Heliobas, 
heartily pressing the proffered palm. “ You had your 
doubts of me and you have them still; but what of that! 
I take no offence at unbelief. I pity those who suffer from 
its destroying influence too profoundly to find room in 
my heart for anger. Moreover, I never try to convert 
anybody .... it is so much more satisfactory when 
sceptics convert themselves, as you are unconsciously 
doing! Come, . . . shall we join the brethren?” 

Over Alwyn’s face flitted a transient shade of uneasi¬ 
ness and hauteur. 

“ I would rather they knew nothing about all this,” he 
began. 

“ Make your mind quite easy on that score,” rejoined 
Heliobas.. “None of my companions here are aware of 
your recent departure, except my very old personal friend 
Ililarion, who, with myself, saw your body while in its 
state of temporary death. But he is one of those remark¬ 
ably rare wise men who know when it is best to be silent; 
then again, he is ignorant as to the results of your soul- 
transmigration, and will, as far as I am concerned, remain 
in ignorance. Your confidence I assure you is perfectly 
safe with me—as safe as though it had been received under 
the sacred seal of confession.” 

With this understanding Alwyn seemed relieved and 
oatisfiedj and thereupon they left the apartment together. 



62 


ABDATR ; 


CHAPTER VI. 

cfi NOTTRHALMA ” A*ND THE ORIGINAL ESDRAB. 

Later on in the afternoon of the same day* when the 
sun, poised above the western mountain-range, appeared to 
be lazily looking about him with a drowsy, golden smile 
of farewell before descending to his rest, Alwyn was once 
more alone in the library. Twilight shadows were already 
gathering in the corners of the long, low room, but he had 
moved the writing-table to the window, in order to enjoy 
the magnificence of the surrounding scenery, and sat where 
the light fell full upon his face as he leaned back in his 
chair, with his hands clasped behind his head, in an atti¬ 
tude of pleased, half-meditative indolence. He had just 
finished reading from beginning to end the poem he had 
composed in his trance . . there was not a line in it he 
could have wished altered,—not a word that would have 
been better omitted,—the only thing it lacked was a title, 
and this was the question on which he now pondered. 
The subject of the poem itself was not new to him—it 
was a story he had known from boyhood, . . an old East¬ 
ern love-legend, fantastically beautiful as many such 
legends are, full of grace and passionate fervor—a theme 
fitted for the nightingale-utterance of a singer like the 
Persian Hafiz—though even Hafiz would have found it 
difficult to match the exquisitely choice language and 
delicately ringing rhythm in which this quaint idytt of 
long past ages was now most perfectly set like a jewel in 
fine gold. Alwyn himself entirely realized the splendid 
literary value of the composition—he knew that nothing 
more artistic in conception or more finished in treatment 
had appeared since the St. Agnes Eve of Keats—and as 
he thought of this, he yielded to a growing sense of self- 
complacent satisfaction which gradually destroyed all the 
deeply devout humility he had at first felt concerning the 
high and mysterious origin of his inspiration. The old 
inherent pride of his nature reasserted itself—he reviewed 
all the circumstances of his “ trance ” in the most practical 
manner—and calling to mind how the poet Coleridge had 
improvised the delicious fragment of Kubla Man in a 


ABBA TIT. 


' 58 

dream, he began to see nothing so very remarkable in his 
own unconscious production "of a complete poem while 
under mesmeric or magnetic influences. 

“ After all,” he mused, “ the matter is simple enough 
when one reasons it out. I have been unable to write 
anything worth writing for a long time, and I told Ilelio- 
bas as much. He, knowing my apathetic condition of 
brain, employed his force accordingly, though he denies 
having done so, . . and this poem is evidently the result 
of my long pent-up thoughts that struggled for utterance , 
yet could not before find vent in words. The only mys¬ 
terious part of the affair is this ‘Field of Ardatli,’ . . . 
how its name haunts me! . . and how her face shines 
before the eyes of my memory! That she should be a 
phantom of my own creation seems impossible—for when 
have I, even in my wildest freaks of fancy, ever imagined 
a creature half so fair ! ” 

His gaze rested dreamily on the opposite snow-clad 
peaks, above which large fleecy clouds, themselves like 
moving mountains, were slowly passing, their edges glow¬ 
ing with purple and gold as they neared the sinking sun. 
Presently rousing himself, he took up a pen and first of 
all addressing an envelope to 

“The Honble. Francis Villiers, 

“ Constitutional Club, 

“ London.” 

ne rapidly wrote off the following letter : 

“ Monastery of Lars, 

“ Pass of Dariel, Caucasus.” 

“ My dear Yilliers Start not at the above address ! I am not 
yet vowed to perpetual seclusion, silence or celibacy ! That I of all 
men in the world should be in a Monastery will seem to you, who know 
my prejudices, in the last degree absurd—nevertheless here I am,— 
though'here I do not remain, as it is my fixed intention to-morrow at 
daybreak to depart straightway from hence en route for the supposed 
site and ruins of Babylon. Yes,—Babylon ! why not ? Perished 
greatness has always been a more interesting subject of contem¬ 
plation to me than existing littleness—and I dare say I shall wander 
among the tumuli of the ancient fallen city with more satisfaction 
than in the hot, humanity-packed streets of London, Paris, or Vienna 
—all destined to become tumuli in their turn. Moreover, I am on the 
track of an adventure,—on the search for a new sensation, havhig tried 
nearly all the old ones and found them nil. You know my nomadic 
and restless disposition . . perhaps there is something of the Greek 
gipsy about me—a craving for constant change of scene and sur¬ 
roundings,—however, as my absence from you and England is likely 


54 


ARDATII. 


to be somewhat prolonged, I send you in the mean time a Poem--- 
there ! ‘ Season your admiration for a while,’ and hear me out 

patiently. I am perfectly aware of all you would say concerning the 
utter folly and uselessness of writing poetry at all in this present age 
of milk-and-watery-literature, shilling sensationals, and lascivious 
society dramas,—and I have a very keen recollection too of the way 
in which my last hook was maltreated by the entire press—good 
heavens ! how the critics yelped like dogs about my heels, snapping, 
sniffing, and snarling ! I could have wept then like the sensitive fool 
I was .... I can laugh now ! In brief, my friend—for you are my 
friend and the best of all possible good fellows—I have made up my 
mind to conquer those that have risen against me—to break through 
the ranks of pedantic and pre-conceived opinions—and to climb the 
heights of fame, regardless of the little popular pipers of tame verse 
that obstruct my path and blow their tin whistles in the public ears to 
drown, if possible, my song. I will be heard ! . . . and to this end 
I pin my faith on the work I now transmit to your care. Have it 
published immediately and in the best style—I will cover all expenses. 
Advertise sufficiently, yet with becoming modesty, for * puffery ’ is a 
thing I heartily despise,—and were the whole press to turn round-and 
applaud me as much as it has hitherto abused and ridiculed me, I 
would not have one of its penny lines of condescendingly ignorant 
approval quoted in connection with what must be a perfectly unos¬ 
tentatious and simple announcement of this new production frorr my 
pen. The manuscript is exceptionally clear, even for me who do not 
as a rule write a very bad scrawl—so that you can scarcely have much 
bother with the proof-correcting—though even were this the case, and 
the printers turned out to be inco:Tigible blockheads and blunderers, 
I know you would grudge neither time nor trouble expended in my 
service. Good Frank Villiers 1 how much I owe you !—and yet I 
willingly incur another debt of gratitude by placing this matter in 
your hands, and am content to borrow more of your friendship, but 
only believe me, in order to repay it again with the truest interest ! 
By the way, do you remember when w r e visited the last Paris Salon 
together, how fascinated we were by one picture—the head of a monk 
whose eyes looked out like a veritable illumination from under the 
folds of a drooping white cowl ? . . and how on referring to our cata¬ 
logues we found it described as the portrait of one ‘Heliobas,’ an 
Eastern mystic, a psychist formerly well known in Paris, but since 
retired into monastic life ? Well ! I lrave discovered him here; he is 
apparently the Superior or cliief of this Order—though what Order it 
is and when founded is more than I can tell. There are fifteen monks 
altogether, living contentedly in this old, half-ruined habitation 
among the barren steeps of the frozen Caucasus,—splendid, princely 
looking fellows all of them, Heliobas himself being an exceptionally 
fine specimen of his race. I have just dined with the whole community, 
and have been fairly astonished by the fluent brilliancy and wit of 
their conversation. They speak all languages, English included, and 
no subject comes amiss to them, for they are familiar with the latest 
political situations in all countries,—they know all about the newest 
scientific discoveries (which, by-the-by, they smile at blandly, as 
though these last were mere child’s play), and they discuss our modern 
social problems and theories with a Socratlc-like incisiveness and com¬ 


ure such as our parliamentary howlers would do well to imitate. 
?ir doctrine is, , but l will not boro you by a theological dis<^ti-> 



ABDATS. 


65 ; 

sition,—enough to say it is founded on Christianity, and that'at’ 
present I don’t quite know what to make of it ! And now, my dear 
VilMers, farewell ! An answer to this is unnecessary ; besides I can 
give you no address, as it is uncertain where I shall be for the next 
two or three months. If I don’t get as much pleasure as I anticipate 
from the contemplation of the Babylonian ruins, I shall probably take 
up my abode in Bagdad for a time and try to fancy myself back in the 
days of 4 good Haroun Alraschid.’ At any rate, whatever becomes 
of me, I know I have entrusted my Poem to safe hands—and all I 
ask of you is that it may be brought out with the least possible delay, 
—for its immediate publication seems to me just now the most vitally 
important thing in the world, except.... except the adventure on 
which I am at present engaged, of which more hereafter, . . when we 
meet. Until then think as well of me as you can, and believe me 
“ Ever and most truly your friend, 

“ Theos Alwyn.” 

This letter finished, folded, and sealed, Alwyn once 
more took up his manuscript and meditated anew con¬ 
cerning its title. Stay! . . why not call it by the name 
of the ideal heroine whose heart-passion and sorrow formed 
the nucleus of the legend? . . a name that he in very 
truth was all unconscious of having chosen, but which 
occurred frequently with musical persistence throughout 
the entire poem. “ Nourhalma ! ” ... it had a soft sound 
... it seemed to breathe of Eastern languor and love¬ 
singing,—it was surely the best title he could have. 
Straightway deciding thereon, he wrote it clearly at the 
top of the first page, thus: “Nourhalma; A Love-Legend 
of the Past,” . . then turning to the end, he signed his 
own name with a bold flourish, thus attesting his indis¬ 
putable right to the authorship of what was not only des¬ 
tined to be the most famous poetical masterpiece of the 
day, but was also soon to prove the most astonishing, 
complex, and humiliating problem ever suggested to his 
brain. Carefully numbering the pages, he folded them 
in a neat packet, which he tied strongly and sealed—then 
addressing it to his friend, he put letter and packet to¬ 
gether, and eyed them both somewhat wistfully, feeling that 
with them went his great chance of immortal Fame. Im¬ 
mortal Fame!—what a grand vista of fair possibilities those 
words unveiled to his imagination! Lost in pleasant 
musings, he looked out again on the landscape. The sun 
had sunk behind the mountains so far, that nothing was 
left of his glowing presence but a golden rim from which 
great glittering rays spread upward, like lifted lances 
poised against the purple and roseate clouds. A slight 


56 


ABB ATE. 


click caused by the opening of the door disturbed his 
reverie,—he turned round in his chair, and half rose from 
it as Heliobas entered, carrying a small richly chased 
silver casket. 

“ Ah, good Heliobas! here you are at last,” he said 
with a smile. “ I began to think you were never coming. 
My correspondence is finished,—and, as you see, my 
poem is addressed to England—where I pray it may 
meet with a better fate than has hitherto attended my 
efforts! ” 

“You pray?” queried Heliobas, meaningly, “or you 
hope? There is a difference between the two.” 

“ I suppose there is,” he returned nonchalantly. “ And 
certainly—to be correct—I should have said I hope, for I 
never pray. What have you there ? ”—this as Heliobas 
set the casket he carried down on the table before him. 
“A reliquary ? And is it supposed to contain a fragment 
of the true cross ? Alas ! I cannot believe in these frag¬ 
ments—there are too many of them! ” 

Heliobas laughed gently. 

“ You are right! Moreover, not a single splinter of the 
true cross is in existence. It was, like other crosses then 
in general use, thrown aside as lumber,—and had rotted 
away into the earth long before the Empress Helena 
started on her piously crazed wanderings. No, I have 
nothing of that sort in here,”—and taking a key from a 
small chain that hung at his girdle he unlocked the casket. 
This has been in the possession of the various members 
of our Order for ages,—it is our chief treasure, and is 
seldom, I may say never, shown to strangers,—but the 
mystic mandate you have received concerning the 4 field 
of Ardath’ entitles you to see what I think must needs 
prove interesting to you under the circumstances.” And 
opening the box he lifted out a small square volume bound 
in massive silver and double-clasped. “ This,” he went 
on, “ is the original text of a portion of the 4 Visions of 
Esdras,’ and dates from the thirtieth year after the down¬ 
fall of Babylon’s commercial prosperity.” 

Alwyn uttered an exclamation of incredulous amaze¬ 
ment. “ Not possible! ” he cried .... then he added 
eagerly, “ May I look at it ? ” 

Silently Heliobas placed it in his outstretched hand. 
As he undid the clasps a faint odor like that of long dead 
j*ose-leaves came like a breath on the air, ... he opened 


r AEDATH. 


57 


ft, and saw that its pages consisted of twelve moderately 
thick sheets of ivory, which were covered all over with 
curious small characters finely engraved thereon by some 
evidently sharp and well-pointed instrument. These let¬ 
ters were utterly unknown to Alwyn: he had seen noth¬ 
ing like them in any of the ancient tongues, and he exam¬ 
ined them perplexedly. 

“ What language is this ? ” he asked at last, looking 
up. “ It is not Hebrew—nor yet Sanskrit—nor does it 
resemble any of the discovered forms of hieroglyphic 
writing. Can you understand it ? ” 

“ Perfectly! ” returned Heliobas. “ If I could not, then 
much of the wisdom and science of past ages would be 
closed to my researches. It is the language once com¬ 
monly spoken by certain great nations which existed long 
before the foundations of Babylon were laid. Little by 
little it fell into disuse, till it was only kept up among 
scholars and sages, and in time became known only as 
‘ the language of prophecy.’ When Esdras wrote his 
Visions they were originally divided into two hundred 
and four books,—and, as you will see by referring to 
what is now called the Apocrypha,* he was commanded 
to publish them all openly to the ‘worthy and unworthy’ 
—all except the ‘ seventy last,’ which were to be delivered 
solely to such as were ‘ wise among the people.’ Thus 
one hundred and thirty-four were written in the vulgar 
tongue,—the remaining seventy in the ‘ language of proph¬ 
ecy,’ for the use of deeply learned and scientific men 
alone. The volume you hold is one of those seventy.” 

“ How did you come by it ? ” asked Alwyn, curiously 
turning the book over and over. 

“ How did our Order come by it, you mean,” said Helio¬ 
bas. “Very simply. Chaldean fraternities existed in the 
time of Esdras, and to the supreme Chief of these, Esdras 
himself delivered it. You look dubious, but I assure you 
it is quite authentic,—we have its entire history up to 
date.”" 

“ Then are you all Chaldeans here ? ” 

“ Hot all—but most of us. Three of the brethren are 
Egyptians, and two are natives of Damascus. The rest 
are, like myself, descendants of a race supposed to have 
perished from off the face of the earth, yet still powerful 
to a degree undreamed of by the men of this puny age.” 

*Vide 2 Esdras xiv. 44-48. 


58 


ABDATH. 


Alwyn gave an upward glance at the speaker’s regal 
form—a glance of genuine admiration. 

44 As far as that goes,” he said, with a frank laugh, “ I’m 
quite willing to believe you and your companions are 
kings in disguise,—you all have that appearance! But 
regarding this book,”—and again he turned over the 
silver-bound relic—“ if its authenticity can be proved, as 
you say, why, the British Museum would give, ah! . . . 
let me see!—it would give . . 

“Nothing!” declared Heliobas quietly, “believe me, 
nothing! The British Government would no doubt accept 
it as a gift, just as it would with equal alacrity accept the 
veritable signature of Homer, which we also possess in 
another retreat of ours on the Isle of Lemnos. But our 
treasures are neither for giving nor selling, and with 
respect to this original 4 Esdras,’ it will certainly never 
pass out of our hands.” 

“ And what of the other missing sixty-nine books ? ” 
asked Alwyn. 

“ They may possibly be somewhere in the world,—two 
of them, I know, were buried in the coffin of one of the 
last princes of Chaldea,—perhaps they will be unearthed 
some day. There is also a rumor to the effect that Esdras 
engraved his 4 Last Prophecy ’ on a small oval tablet of 
pure jasper, which he himself secrected, no one knows 
where. But to come to the point of immediate issue, . . . 
shall I find out and translate for you the allusions to the 
‘field of Ardath’ contained in this present volume?” 

“ Do! ” said Alwyn, eagerly, at once returning the book 
to Heliobas, who, seating himself at the table, began care¬ 
fully looking over its ivory pages—“ I am all impatience! 
Even without the vision I have had, I should still feel a 
desire to see this mysterious Field for its own sake,—it 
must have some very strange associations to be worth 
specifying in such a particular manner! ” 

Heliobas answered nothing—he was entirely occupied 
in examining the small, closely engraved characters in 
which the ancient record was written; the crimson after¬ 
glow of the now descended sun flared through the window 
and sent a straight, rosy ray on his bent head and white 
robes, lighting to a more lustrous brilliancy the golden 
cross and jeweled star on his breast, and flashing round 
the silver clasps of the time-honored relic before him, 
Presently he looked up , , 


ABB ATB. 59 

c< Here we have it! ” and he placed his finger on one 
especial passage—it reads as follows: 


“ ‘ And the Angel bade me enter a waste field, and the field was 
barren and dry save of herbs, and the name of the field was Ardath. 

“ ‘ And I wandered therein through the hours of the long night, and 
the silver eyes of the field did open before me and I saw signs and 
wonders : 

“ ‘ And I heard a voice crying aloud, Esdras, Esdras. 

“ ‘ And I arose and stood on my feet and listened and refrained not 
till I heard the voice again. 

“ ‘ Which said unto me, Behold the field thou thoughtest barren, 
how great a glory hath the moon unveiled! 

“ ‘And I beheld and was sore amazed: for I was no longer myself 
but another. 

“ ‘And the sword of death was in that other’s soul, and yet that 
other was but myself in pain; 

“ ‘ And I knew not those things that were once farrdiar,—and my 
heart failed within me for very fear. 

“ ‘ And the voice cried aloud again saying: Hide thee from the 
perils of the past and the perils of the future, for a great and terrible 
thing is come upon thee, against which thy strength is as a reed in 
the wind and thy thoughts as flying sand . . . 

“ ‘*And, lo, I lay as one that had been dead and mipe understand¬ 
ing was taken from me. And he (the Angel) took me by the right 
hand and comforted me and set me upon my l'*et and said unto me: 

“ ‘ What aileth thee ? and why art thou so disquieted ? and why is 
thine understanding troubled and the thoughts of thine heart ? 

‘‘ * And I said, Because thou hast forsaken me and yet I did accord¬ 
ing to thy words, and I went into the field and lo! I have seen and 
yet see that I am not able to express.’ ” 

Here Ileliobas paused, having read the last sentence 
with peculiarly impressive emphasis. 

“ That is all ”—he said—“ I see no more allusions to the 
name of Ardath. The last three verses are the same as 
those in the accepted Apocrypha.” 


CHAPTER VII. 

AN UNDE SIRED BLESSING. 

Alwyn had listened with an absorbed yet somewhat 
mystified air of attention. 

“ The venerable Esdras was certainly a poet in his own 
way ! ” he remarked lightly. “ There is something very 
fascinating about the rhythm of his lines, though I confess 

* See 2 Esdras x. 80-32. 


60 


ARDATS. 


I don’t grasp their meaning. Still, I should like to hare 
them all the same,—will you let me write them out just 
as you have translated them ? ” 

Willingly assenting to this, Heliobas read the extract 
over again, Alwyn taking down the words from his dicta¬ 
tion. 

“ Perhaps,” he then added musingly, “ perhaps it would 
be as well to copy a few passages from the Apocrypha 
also.” 

Whereupon the Bible was brought into requisition, and 
the desired quotations made, consisting of verses xxiv. 
to xxvi. in the * ninth chapter of the Second Book of 
Esdras, and verses xxv. to xxvi. in the tenth chapter of 
the same. This done, Heliobas closed and clasped the 
original text of the Prophet’s work and returned it to its 
casket; then addressing his guest in a kindly, yet serious 
tone, he said: “ You are quite resolved to undertake this 
journey, Mr. Alwyn ? ” 

Alwyn looked dreamily out of the window at the flame 
of the sunset hues reflected from the glowing sky on the 
white summit of the mountains. 

“ Yes, . . I . . I think so! ” The answer had a touch 
of indecision in it. 

“ In that case,” resumed Heliobas, “ I have prepared a 
letter of introduction for you to one of our Order known 
as Elzear of Melyana,—he is a recluse, and his hermitage 
is situated close to the Babylonian ruins. You will find 
rest and shelter there after the fatigues of travel. I have 
also traced out a map of the district, and the exact posi¬ 
tion of the field you seek, . . here it is,” and he laid a 
square piece of parchment on the table; “ you can easily 
perceive at a glance how the land lies. There are a few 
directions written at the back, so I think you will have no 
difficulty. This is the letter to Elzear,”—here he held out 
a folded paper—“ will you take it now? ” 

Alwyn received it with a dubious smile, and eyed the 
donor as if he rather suspected the sincerity of his inten¬ 
tions. 

“ Thanks very much ! ” he murmured listlessly. “ You 
are exceedingly good to make it all such plain sailing for 
me,—and yet . . to be quite frank with you, I can’t help 
thinking I am going on a fool’s errand ! ” 

* The reader is requested to refer to the parts of “Esdras” her& 
indicated. 


ARDATIL 


61 


“If that is your opinion, why go at all?” queried 
Ileliobas, with a slight disdain in his accents. “ Return 
to England instead—forget the name of ‘Ardath,’ and 
forget also the one who bade you meet her there, and who 
has waited for you 4 these many thousand days! ’ ” 

Alwyn started as if lie had been stung. 

44 Ah ! ” he exclaimed. 44 If I could be certain of seeing 
her again! . . if . . good God! the idea seems absurd ! . . 
if that Flower-Crowned Wonder of my dream should act¬ 
ually fulfill her promise and keep her tryst . .” 

44 Well! ” demanded Heliobas— 44 If so, what then? ” 

44 Well then I will believe in anything! ” he cried— 44 No 
miracle will seem miraculous .. no impossibility impossi¬ 
ble!” 

Heliobas sighed, and regarded him thoughtfully. 

44 You think you will believe! ” he said somewhat sadly 
— 44 But doubts such as yours are not easily dispelled. 
Angels have ere now descended to men, and men have 
neither received nor recognized them. Angels walk by 
our side through crowded cities and lonely woodlands,— 
they watch us when we sleep, they hear us when we pray, 
. . and yet the human eye sees nothing save the material 
objects within reach of its vision, and is not very sure of 
those, while it can no more discern the spiritual presences 
than it can without a microscope discern the lovely living 
creatures contained in a drop of dew or a ray of sunshine. 
Our earthly sight is very limited—it can neither perceive 
the infinitely little nor the infinitely great. And it is 
possible,—nay, it is most probable, that even as Peter of 
old denied his Divine Master, so you, if brought face to 
face with the Angel of your last night’s experience, would 
deny and endeavor to disprove her identity.” 

44 Never ! ” declared Alwyn, with a passionate gesture 
— 44 1 should know her among a thousand ! ” 

For one instant Heliobas bent upon him a sudden, 
searching, almost pitiful glance, then withdrawing his 
gaze he said gently : 

44 Well, well! let us hope for the best—God’s ways are 
inscrutable—and you tell me that now—now after your 
strange so-called 4 vision ’—you believe in God ? ” 

44 1 did say so, certainly . . ” and Alwyn’s face flushed 
a little . . 44 but . . ” 

* Ah! . . you hesitate ! there is a 4 but ’ in the case!” 
and Heliobas turned upon him with a grand reproach in 


62 


ARBATII. 


his brilliant eyes . . “ Already stepping backward on the 
road! . . already rushing once again into the dark¬ 
ness ! . He paused, then laying one hand on the young 
man’s shoulder, continued in mild yet impressive accents : 
“ My friend, remember that the doubter and opposer of God 
is also the doubter and opposer of his own well-being. Let 
this unnatural and useless combat of Human Reason 
against Divine Instinct cease within you—you, who as a 
poet are bound to equalize your nature that it may the 
more harmoniously fulfil its high commission. You know 
what one of your modern writers says of life ? . . . that it 
is a 4 Dream in which we clutch at shadows as though 
they were substances, and sleep deepest when fancying 
ourselves most awake.’ * Believe me, you have slept 
long enough—it is time you awoke to the full realization 
of your destinies.” 

Alwyn heard in silence, feeling inwardly rebuked and 
half ashamed—the earnestly spoken words moved him 
more than he cared to show—his head drooped—he made 
no reply. After all, he thought, he had really no more 
substantial foundation for his unbelief than others had 
for their faith. With all his studies in the modern schools 
of science, lie was not a whit more advanced in learning 
than Democritus of old—Democritus who based his sys¬ 
tem of morals on the severest mathematical lines, taking 
as his starting-point a vacuum and atoms, and who after 
stretching his intellect on a constant rack of searching 
inquiry for years, came at last to the unhappy conclusion 
that man is absolutely incapable of positive knowledge, 
and that even if truth is in his possession he can never be 
certain of it. Was he, Theos Alwyn, wiser than Demo¬ 
critus ? . . or was this stately Chaldean monk, with the 
clear, pathetic eyes and tender smile, and the symbol of 
Christ on his breast, wiser than both ? . . wiser in the 
wisdom of eternal things than any of the subtle-minded 
ancient Greek philosophers or modern imitators of their 
theories? Was there, could there be something not yefc 
altogether understood or fathomed in the Christian 
creed ?.. as this idea occurred to him he looked up and 
met his companion’s calm gaze fixed upon him with a 
watchful gentleness and patience, 

w Are you reading my thoughts, Heliobas ? ” he asked. 


f Carlyle’s Sartor Resartm . 


ARDATH. 




with a forced laugh. “ I assure you they are not worth 
the trouble.” 

Heliobas smiled, but made no answer. Just then one 
of the monks entered the room with a large lighted lamp, 
which he set on the table, and the conversation thus inter¬ 
rupted was not again resumed. 

The evening shadows were now closing in rapidly, and 
already above the furthest visible snow-peak the first 
risen star sparkled faintly in the darkening sky. Soon 
the vesper bell began ringing as it had rung on the pre¬ 
vious night when Alwyn, newly arrived, had sat alone in 
the refectory, listlessly wondering what manner of men 
he had come amongst, and what would be the final result 
of his adventure into the wilds of Caucasus. His feelings 
had certainly undergone some change since then, inas¬ 
much as he was no longer disposed to ridicule or condemn 
religious sentiment, though he was nearly as far from ac¬ 
tually believing in Religion itself as ever. The attitude 
of his mind was still distinctly skeptical—the immutable 
pride of what he considered his own firmly rooted convic¬ 
tions was only very slightly shaken—and he now even 
viewed the prospect of his journey to the “ field of Ardath ” 
as a mere fantastic whim—a caprice of his own fancy 
which he chose to gratify just for the sake of curiosity. 

But notwithstanding the stubbornness of the material¬ 
istic principles with which he had become imbued, his 
higher instincts were, unconsciously to himself, beginning 
to be aroused—his memory involuntarily wandered back 
to the sweet, fresh days of his earliest manhood before the 
poison of Doubt had filtered through his soul—his char¬ 
acter, naturally of the lofty, imaginative, and ardent cast, 
re-asserted its native force over the blighting blow of 
blank Atheism which had for a time paralyzed its efforts 
—and as he unwittingly yielded more and more to the 
mild persuasions of these genial influences, so the former 
Timon-like bitterness of his humor gradually softened. 
There was no trace in him now of the dark, ironic, and 
reckless scorn that, before his recent visionary experience, 
had distinguished his whole manner and bearing—the 
smile came more readily to his lips—and he seemed con¬ 
tent for the present to display the sunny side of his nature 
—a nature impassioned, frank, generous, and noble, in 
spite of the taint of overweening, ambitious egotism 
Which somewhat warped its true quality and narrowed 


64 


ARDATH. 


the range of its sympathies. In his then frame of mind, 
a curious, vague sense of half-pleasurable penitence ^as 
upon him,—delicate, undefined, almost devotional sugges¬ 
tions stirred his thoughts with the refreshment that a 
cool wind brings to parched and drooping flowers,—so 
that when Heliobas, taking up the silver “ Esdras ” reli¬ 
quary and preparing to leave the apartment in response to 
the vesper summons, said gently, “Will you attend our 
service, Mr. Alwyn?” he assented at once, with a pleased 
alacrity which somewhat astonished himself as he remem¬ 
bered how, on the previous evening, he had despised and 
inwardly resented all forms of religious observance. 

However, he did not stop to consider the reason of his 
altered mood, . . he followed the monks into chapel with 
an air of manly grace and quiet reverence that became 
him much better than the offensive and defensive de¬ 
meanor he had erewliile chosen to assume in the same 
prayer-hallowed place,—he listened to the impressive 
ceremonial from beginning to end without the least fatigue 
or impatience,—and though when the brethren knelt, he 
could not humble himself so far as to kneel also, he still 
made a slight concession to appearances by sitting down 
and keeping his head in a bent posture—“ out of respect 
for the good intentions of these worthy men,” as he told 
himself, to silence the inner conflict of his own opposing 
and contradictory sensations. The service concluded, he 
waited as before to see the monks pass out, and was 
smitten with a sudden surprise, compunction, and regret, 
when Heliobas, who walked last as usual, paused where 
he stood, and confronted him, saying: 

“ I will bid you farewell here, my friend! . . . I have 
many things to do this evening, and it is best I should see 
you no more before your departure.” 

“ Why ? ” asked Alwyn astonished—“ I had hoped for 
another conversation with you.” 

“ To what purpose ! ” inquired Heliobas mildly. “ That 
I should assert . . and you deny . . facts that God Him¬ 
self will prove in His own way and at Ilis own appointed 
time ? Nay, we should do no good by further arguments.” 

“ But,” stammered Alwyn hastily, flushing hotly as he 
spoke, “ you give me no chance to thank you. . . to ex¬ 
press my gratitude.” 

“ Gratitude?” questioned Heliobas almost mournfully, 
with a tinge of reproach in his soft, mellow voice. “ Are 



ARDATH. 


65 

you grateful for being, as you think, deluded by a trance ? 
, . cheated, as it were, into a sort of semi-belief in the life 
to come by means of mesmerism ? Your first request to 
me, _ know, was that you might be deceived by my in¬ 
fluence into a state of imaginary happiness,—and now you 
fancy your last night’s experience was merely the result 
of that pre-eminently foolish desire. You are wrong! . .. 
and, as matters stand, no thanks are needed. If I had' 
indeed mesmerized or hypnotized you, I might perhaps 
have deserved some reward for the exertion of my purely 
professional skill, but ... as I have told you already. . . 
I have done absolutely nothing. Your fate is, as it has 
always been, in your own hands. You sought me of your 
own accord . . . you used me as an instrument, an un¬ 
willing instrument, remember! . . . whereby to break 
open the prison doors of your chafed and fretting spirit,— 
and the end of it all is that you depart from hence to¬ 
morrow of your own free-will and choice, to fulfill the 
appointed tryst made with you, as you believe, by a phan¬ 
tom in a vision. In brief ’’—here he spoke more slowly 
and with marked emphasis—“ you go to the field of 
Ardath to solve a puzzling problem . . . namely, as to 
whether what we call life is not a Dream—and whether a 
Dream may not perchance be proved Reality! In this 
enterprise of yours I have no share—nor will I say more 
than this . . . God speed you on your errand ! ” 

He held out his hand—Alwyn grasped it, looking earn¬ 
estly meanwhile at the fine intellectual face, the clear 
pathetic eyes, the firm yet sensitive mouth, on which 
there just then rested a serious yet kindly smile. 

44 What a strange man you are, Ileliobas ! ” he said im¬ 
pulsively . . “I wish I knew more about you! ” 

Ileliobas gave him a friendly glance. 

“ Wish rather that you knew more about yourself ”— 
he answered simply— 44 Fathom your own mystery of be¬ 
ing—you shall find none deeper, greater, or more difficult 
of comprehension! ” 

Alwyn still held his hand, reluctant to let it go. Fh 
nally releasing it with a slight sigh, he said: 

“ Well, at any rate, though we part now it will not be 
for long. We must meet again! ” 

44 Why, if we must, we shall!” rejoined Heliobas 
cheerily. 44 Must cannot be prevented! In the mean 
time . , farewell! ” 
fS 


66 


ARDATH. 


« Farewell! ” and as this word was spoken their eyes 
met. Instinctively and on a sudden impulse, Alwyn 
bowed his head in the lowest and most reverential saluta¬ 
tion he had perhaps ever made to any creature of mortal 
mold, and as he did so Heliobas paused in the act of turn¬ 
ing away. 

“ Do you care for a blessing, gentle Skeptic! ” he asked 
in a soft tone that thrilled tenderly through the silence of 
the dimly-lit chapel,—then, receiving no reply, he laid one 
hand gently on the young man’s dark, clustering curls, 
and with the other slowly traced the sign of the cross 
upon the smooth, broad fairness of his forehead.—“ Take 
it, my son! . . the only blessing I can give thee,—the 
blessing of the Cross of Christ, which in spite of thy 
desertion claims thee, redeems thee, and will yet possess 
thee for its own ! ” 

And before Alwyn could recover from his astonishment 
sufficiently to interrupt and repudiate this, to him, un¬ 
desired form of benediction, Heliobas had gone, and he 
was left alone. Lifting his head he stared out into the 
further corridor, down which he just perceived a distant 
glimmer of vanishing white robes,—and for a moment he 
was filled with speechless indignation. It seemed to him 
that the sign thus traced on his brow must be actually 
visible like a red brand burnt into his flesh,—and all his 
old and violent prejudices against Christianity rushed 
back upon him with the resentful speed of once baffled 
foes returning anew to storm a citadel. Almost as rapidly, 
however, his anger cooled,—he remembered that in his 
vision of the previous night, the light that had guided him 
through the long, shadowy vista had always preceded 
him in the form of a Cross,—and in a softer mood he 
glanced at the ruby Star shining steadily above the 
otherwise darkened altar. Involuntarily the words “ We 
have seen Ilis Star in the East and have come to worship 
Him ”—occurred to his memory, but he dismissed them 
as instantly as they suggested themselves, and finding his 
own thoughts growing perplexing and troublesome he 
hastily left the chapel. 

Joining some of the monks who were gathered in a 
picturesque group round the fire in the refectory he sat 
chatting with them for about half an hour or so, hoping 
to elicit from them in the course of conversation some 
particulars concerning the daily life, character, and pro- 


ARDATH. 


67 


fessing aims of their superior,—but in this attempt he 
failed. They spoke of Heliobas as believing men may 
speak of saints, with hushed reverence and admiring ten¬ 
derness—but on any point connected with his faith, or 
the spiritual nature of his theories, they held their peace, 
evidently deeming the subject too sacred for discussion. 
Baffled in all his inquiries Alwyn at last said good-night, 
and retired to rest in the small sleeping-apartment pre¬ 
pared for his accommodation, where be enjoyed a sound, 
refreshing, and dreamless slumber. 

The next morning he was up at daybreak, and long 
before the sun had risen above the highest peak of Cau¬ 
casus, he had departed from the Lars Monastery, leaving 
a handsome donation in the poor-box toward the various 
charitable works in which the brethren were engaged, 
such as the rescue of travellers lost in the snow, or 
the burial of the many victims murdered on or near the 
Pass of Dariel by the bands of fierce mountain robbers 
and assassins, that at certain seasons infest that solitary 
region. Making the best of his way to the fortress of 
Passanaur, he there joined a party of adventurous Rus¬ 
sian climbers who had just successfully accomplished 
the assent of Mount Kazbek, and in their company pro¬ 
ceeded through the rugged Aragua valley to Tiflis, which 
he reached that same evening. From this dark and dis¬ 
mal-looking town, shadowed on all sides by barren and 
cavernous hills, he dispatched the manuscript of his mys¬ 
teriously composed poem, together with the letter con¬ 
cerning it, to his friend Yilliers in England,—and then, 
yielding to a burning sense of impatience within himself, 
—impatience that would brook no delay,—he set out 
resolutely, and at once, on his long pilgrimage to the 
“ land of sand and ruin and gold ”—the land of terrific 
prophecy and stern fulfilment,—the land of mighty and 
mournful memories, where the slow river Euphrates clasps 
in its dusky yellow ring the ashes of great kingdoms falle? 
to rise no more. 


68 


AMD ATE. < 


CHAPTER YIII. 

BY THE WATERS OF BABYLON. 

It was no light or easy journey he had thus rashly un¬ 
dertaken on the faith of a dream,—for dream he still be¬ 
lieved it to be. Many weary days and nights were con¬ 
sumed in the comfortless tedium of travel, . . and though 
he constantly told himself what unheard-of folly it was 
to pursue an illusive chimera of his own imagination,—a 
mere phantasm which had somehow or other taken pos¬ 
session of his brain at a time when that brain must have 
been acted upon (so he continued to think) by strong 
mesmeric or magnetic influence, he went on his way all 
the same with a sort of dogged obstinacy which no fa¬ 
tigue could daunt or lessen. He never lay down to rest 
without the faint hope of seeing once again, if only in 
sleep, the radiant Being whose haunting words had sent 
him on this quest of “ Ardath,”—but herein his expecta¬ 
tions were not realized. No more flower-crowned angels 
floated before him—no sweet whisper of love, encourage¬ 
ment, or promise came mysteriously on his ears in the 
midnight silences,—his slumbers were always profound 
and placid as those of a child and utterly dreamless. 

One consolation he had however, . . . he could write. 
Not a day passed without his finding some new inspira¬ 
tion . . some fresh, quaint, and lovely thought, that flowed 
of itself into most perfect and rhythmical utterance,— 
glorious lines of verse glowing with fervor and beauty 
seemed to fall from his pencil without any effort on his 
part,—and if he had had reason in former times to doubt 
the strength of his poetical faculty, it was now very cer¬ 
tain he could do so longer. His mind was as a fine harp 
newly strung, attuned, and quivering with the conscious¬ 
ness of the music pent-up within it,—and as he remem¬ 
bered the masterpiece of poesy he had written in his 
seeming trance, the manuscript of which would soon be 
in the hands of the London publishers, his heart swelled 
with a growing and irrepressible sense of pride. For he 
knew and felt—with an undefinable yet positive certaiqty 
*-4hat* however much the public or the critics might 

—- r' 


ABB ATE. 


69 


gainsay him, his fame as a poet of the very highest order 
would ere long he asserted and assured. A deep tran¬ 
quillity was in his soul ... a tranquillity that seemed to 
increase the further he went onward,—the restless weari¬ 
ness that had once possessed him was past, and a vaguely 
sweet content pervaded his being like the odor of early 
roses pervading warm air . . he felt, he hoped, he loved! 
.... and yet his feelings, hopes, and longings turned to 
something altogether undeclared and indefinite, as softly 
dim and distant as the first faint white cloud-signal 
wafted from the moon in heaven, when, on the point of 
rising, she makes her queenly purpose known to her 
waiting star-attendants. 

Practically considered, his journey was tedious and for 
the most part dull and uninteresting. In these Satan-like 
days of “ going to and fro in the earth and walking up and 
down in it ” travelling has lost much of its old romantic 
charm, . . the idea of traversing long distances no more 
fills the expectant adventurer with a pleasurable sense of 
uncertainty and mystery—he knows exactly what to antic¬ 
ipate . . it is all laid out for him plainly on the level lines 
of the commonplace, and nothing is left to his imagination. 
The Continent of Europe has been ransacked from end to 
end by tourists who have turned it into a sort of exhausted 
pleasure-garden, whereof the various entertainments are 
too familiarly known to arouse any fresh curiosity,—the 
East is nearly in the same condition,—hordes of British 
and American sight-seers scamper over the empire-strewn 
soil of Persia and Syria with the unconcerned indifference 
of beings to whom not only a portion of the world’s terri¬ 
tory, but the whole world itself, belongs,—and soon there 
will not be an inch of ground left on the narrow extent of 
our poor planet that has not been trodden by the hasty, 
scrambling, irreverent footsteps of some one or other of 
the ever-prolific, all-spreading English-speaking race. 

On his way Alwyn met many of his countrymen,—trav¬ 
ellers who, like himself, had visited the Caucasus and 
Armenia and were now en route , some for Damascus, some 
for Jerusalem and the Holy Land—others again for Cairo 
and Alexandria, to depart from thence homeward by the 
usual Mediterranean line, . . but among these birds-of-pas- 
sage acquaintance he chanced upon none who were going 
to the Ruins of Babylon. He was glad of this—for the 
peculiar nature of his enterprise rendered a companion 


70 


ABDATH. 


altogether undesirable,—and though on one occasion he 
encountered a gentleman-novelist with a note-book, who 
was exceedingly anxious to fraternize with him and dis¬ 
cover whither he was bound, he succeeded in shaking off 
this would-be incubus at Mosul, by taking him to a wonder¬ 
ful old library in that city where there were a number 
I of French translations of Turkish and Syriac romances. 
Here the gentleman-novelist straightway ascended to the 
seventh heaven of plagiarism, and began to copy energeti¬ 
cally whole scenes and descriptive passages from dead-and- 
gone authors, unknown to English critics, for the purpose 
of inserting them hereafter into his own “ original ” work 
of fiction—and in this congenial occupation he forgot all 
about the “ dark handsome man, with the wide brows of 
a Marc Antony and the lips of a Catullus,” as he had 
already described Alwyn in the note-book before-men¬ 
tioned. While in Mosul, Alwyn himself picked up a 
curiosity in the way of literature,—a small quaint volume 
entitled “ The Final Philosophy of Algazzali the Ara¬ 
bian ” It was printed in two languages—the original 
Arabic on one page, and, facing it, the translation in very 
old French. The author, born a.d. 1058, described him¬ 
self as “ a poor student striving to discern the truth of 
things ’’—and his work was a serious, incisive, patiently 
exhaustive inquiry into the workings of nature, 'the capa¬ 
bilities of human intelligence, and the deceptive results of 
human reason. Reading it, Alwyn was astonished to find 
that nearly all the ethical propositions offered for the 
world’s consideration to-day by the most learned and cul¬ 
tured minds, had been already advanced and thoroughly 
discussed by this same Algazzali. One passage in partic¬ 
ular arrested his attention as being singularly applicable 
to his own immediate condition, . . it ran as follows,— 

“I began to examine the objects of sensation and specula¬ 
tion to see if they could possibly admit of doubt. Then 
doubts crowded upon me in such numbers that my incerti¬ 
tude became complete. Whence results the confidence I 
have in sensible things ? The strongest of all our senses 
is sight,—yet if we look at the stars they seem to be as 
small as money-pieces—but mathematical proofs convince 
us. that they are larger than the earth. These and other 
things are judged by the senses, but rejected by reason as 
false. I abandoned the senses therefore, having seen my 
confidence in their absolute truth shaken. Perhaps, said 


ARDATU . 


71 


I, there is no assurance but in the notions of reason ? . . 
that is to say, first principles, as that ten is more than 
three? Upon this the senses replied: What assurance 
have you that your confidence in reason is not of the same 
nature as your confidence in us f When you relied on us, 
reason stepped in and gave us the lie,—had not reason 
been there you would have continued to rely on us. Well, 
may there not exist some other judge superior to reason 
who, if he appeared, would refute the judgments of reason 
in the same way that reason refuted us ? The non-appear¬ 
ance of such a judge is no proof of his non-existence. . . . 
I strove to answer this objection, and my difficulties in¬ 
creased when I came to reflect on sleep. I said to myself: 
During sleep you give to visions a reality and consistence, 
and on awakening you are made aware that they were 
nothing but visions. What assurance have you that 
all you feel and know does actually exist? It is allf 
true as respects your condition at the moment,—but it is 
nevertheless possible that another condition should pre¬ 
sent itself which should be to your awakened state, that 
which youx awakened state is now to your sleep, —so that 
as respects this higher condition your waking is but sleep” 

Over and over again Alwyn read these words and 
pondered on the deep and difficult problems they suggest¬ 
ed, and he was touched to an odd sense of shamed com¬ 
punction, when at the close of the book he came upon 
Algazzali’s confession of utter vanquishment and humility 
thus simply recorded: 

“ I examined my actions and found the best were those 
relating to instruction and education, and even there I 
saw myself given up to unimportant sciences all useless 
in another world. Reflecting on the aim of my teaching 
I found it was not pure in the sight of the Rord. I saw 
that all my efforts were directed toward the acquisition of 
glory to myself. Having therefore distributed my wealth 
I left Bagdad and retired into Syria, where I remained in 
solitary struggle with my soul, combating my passions 
and exercising myself in the purification of my heart and 
in preparation for the other world.” 

This ancient philosophical treatise, together with the 
mystical passage from the original text of Esdras and the 
selected verses from the Apocrypha, formed all Alwyn’s 
stock of reading for the rest of his journey,—the rhapsod¬ 
ical lines of the Prophet he knew by heart, as one knows 


72 


ABBA TH. 


a favorite poem, and he often caught himself unconsciously 
repeating the strange words : “ Behold the field thou 
thoughtest barren: how great a glory hath the moon tin- 
veiled! 

“ And I beheld, and was sore amazed, for I was no 
longer myself but another: 

“ And the sword of death was in that other's soul : and 
yet that other was but myself, in pain. 

“ And I knew not the things that were once familiar 
and my heart failed within me for very fear. . . .” 

What did they mean, he wondered ? or had they any 
meaning at all beyond the faint, far-off suggestions of 
thought that may occasionally and with difficulty be 
discerned through obscure and reckless ecstasies of lan¬ 
guage which, “ full of sound and fury, signify nothing” ? 
Was there, could there, be anything mysterious or sacred 
in this “ waste field ” anciently known as “ Ardath ” ? 
These questions flitted hazily from time to time through 
his brain, but he made no attempt to answer them either 
by refutation or reason, . . . indeed sober, matter-of-fact 
reason, he was well aware, played no part in his present 
undertaking. 

It was late in the afternoon of a sultry parching day 
when he at last arrived at Hillah. This dull little town, 
built at the beginning of the twelfth century out of the 
then plentifully scattered fragments of Babylon, has noth¬ 
ing to offer to the modern traveller save various annoy¬ 
ances in the shape of excessive heat, dust, or rather fine 
blown sand,—dirt, flies, bad food, and general discomfort; 
and finding the aspect of the place not only untempting, 
but positively depressing, Alwyn left his surplus luggage 
at a small and unpretentious hostelry kept by a French¬ 
man, who catered specially for archaeological tourists and 
explorers, and after an hour’s rest, set out alone and on 
foot for the “ eastern quarter ” of the ruins,—namely 
those which are considered by investigators to begin about 
two miles above Hillah. A little beyond them and close 
to the river-bank, according to the directions he had 
received, dwelt the religious recluse for whom he brought 
the letter of introduction from Ileliobas,—a letter bearing 
on its cover a superscription in Latin which translated ran 
thus:—“ To the venerable and much esteemed Elzear 
of Melyana, at the Hermitage, near Hillah. In faith, 
peace, and good-will. Greeting.” Anxious to reach 


ardath. 


78 

Elz&ir’s abode before nightfall, he walked on as briskly 
as the heat and heaviness of the sandy soil would allow, 
keeping to the indistinctly traced path that crossed and 
re-crossed at intervals the various ridges of earth strewn 
with pulverized fragments of brick, bitumen, and pottery, 
which are now the sole remains of stately buildings once 
famous in Babylon. 

A low red sun was sinking slowly on the edge of the 
horizon, when, pausing to look about him, he perceived 
in the near distance, the dark outline of the great mound 
known as Birs-Nimroud, and realized with a sort of 
shock that he was actually surrounded on all sides by 
the crumbled and almost indistinguishable ruins of the 
formerly superb all-dominant Assyrian city that had been 
“ as a golden cup in the Lord’s hand,” and was now no 
more in very truth than a “broken and an empty 
vessel.” For the words, “And Babylon shall become 
heaps,” have certainly been verified with startling exact¬ 
itude—“ heaps ” indeed it has become,—nothing but 
heaps,—heaps of dull earth with here and there a few 
faded green tufts of wild tamarisk, which while faintly 
relieving the blankness of the ground, at the same time 
intensify its monotonous dreariness. Alwyn, beholding 
the mournful desolation of the scene, felt a strong sense 
of disappointment,—he had expected something different, 
—his imagination had pictured these historical ruins as 
being of larger extent and more imposing character. His 
eyes rested rather wearily on the slow, dull gleam of the 
Euphrates, as it wound past the deserted spaces where 
“ the mighty city the astonishment of nations ” had once 
stood, . . . and poet though he was to the very core of his 
nature, he could see nothing poetical in these spectral 
mounds and stone heaps, save in the significant remem¬ 
brance they offered of the old Scriptural prophecy—■ 
“Babylon is fallen—is fallen! Her princes, her wise ( 
men, her captains, her rulers, and her mighty men shall - 
sleep a perpetual sleep and not wake, saith the King who 
is the Lord of Hosts.” And truly it seemed as if the 
curse which had blighted the city’s bygone splendor had 
doomed even its ruins to appear contemptible. 

Just then the glow of the disappearing sun touched the 
upper edge of Birs-Nimroud, giving it for one instant a 
weird effect, as though the ghost of some Babylonian 
watchman were waving a lit torch from its summit,—but 


74 


ABDATH. 


the lurid glare soon faded and a dead gray twilight settled 
solemnly down over the melancholy landscape. With a 
sudden feeling of dejection and lassitude upon him, Alwyn, 
heaving a deep sigh, went onward, and soon perceived, 
lying a little to the north of the river, a small, roughly 
erected tenement with a wooden cross on its roof. 
Rightly concluding that this must be Elzear of Melyana’s 
hermitage, he quickly made his way thither and knocked 
at the door. 

It was opened to him at once by a white-haired, 
picturesque old man, who received him with a mute sign 
of welcome, and who at the same time laid one hand 
lightly but expressively on his own lips to signify that he 
was dumb. This was Elz6ar himself. He was attired in 
the same sort of flowing garb as that worn by the monks 
of Dariel, and with his tall, spare figure, long, silvery 
beard and deep-sunken yet still brilliant dark eyes, he 
might have served as a perfect model for one of the in¬ 
spired prophets of bygone ancient days. Though Nature 
had deprived him of speech, his serene countenance spoke 
eloquently in his favor, its mild benevolent expression 
betokening that inward peace of the heart which so often 
renders old age more beautiful than youth. He perused 
with careful slowness the letter Alwyn presented to him, 
—and then, inclining his head gravely, he made a court¬ 
eous and comprehensive gesture, to intimate that himself 
and all that his house contained were at the service of 
the newcomer. He proceeded to testify the sincerity of 
this assurance at once by setting a plentiful supply of food 
and wine before his guest, waiting upon him, moreover, 
while he ate and drank, with a respectful humility which 
somewhat embarrassed Alwyn, who wished to spare him 
the trouble of such attendance and told him so many times 
with much earnestness. But all to no purpose—Elzear 
only smiled gently and continued to perform the duties of 
hospitality in his own way ... it was evidently no use 
interfering with him. Later on he showed his visitor a 
small cell-like apartment containing a neat bed, together 
with a table, a chair, and a large Crucifix, which latter 
object was suspended against the wall, . . and indicating 
by eloquent signs that here the weariest traveller might 
find good repose, he made a low salutation and departed 
altogether for the night. 

What a still place the “Hermitage” was, thought 


ARBATH. 


75 


Alwyn, as soon as Elzear’s retreating steps had died away 
into silence. There was not a sound to be heard any¬ 
where, . . . not even the faint rustle of leaves stirred by 
the wind. And what a haunting, grave, wistfully tender 
expression filled the face of that sculptured Image on the 
Cross, which in intimate companionship with himself 
seemed to possess the little room! He could not bear the 
down-drooping appealing, penetrating look in those 
heavenly-kind yet piteous Eyes, . . . turning abruptly 
away he opened the narrow window, and folding his arms 
on the sill surveyed the scene before him. The full moon 
was rising slowly, . . . round and large, she hung like a 
yellow shield on the dark, dense wall of the sky. The 
Ruins of Babylon were plainly visible . . the river shone 
like a golden ribbon,—the outline of Birs-Nimroud was 
faintly rimmed with light, and had little streaks of amber 
radiance wandering softly up and down its shadowy 
slopes. 

“ 4 And I went into the field called Ardath and there I sat 
among the flowers ! ’ ” mused Alwyn half aloud, his dreamy 
gaze fixed on the gradually brightening heavens. . , 
“ Why not go there at once . . . now / ” 


CHAPTER IX. 

THE FIELD OF FLOWERS. 

This idea had no sooner entered his mind than he pre¬ 
pared to act upon it,—though only a short while previously, 
feeling thoroughly overcome by fatigue, he had resolved 
to wait till next day before setting out for the chief goal 
of his long pilgrimage. But now, strangely enough, all 
sense of weariness had suddenly left him,—a keen im¬ 
patience burned in his veins,—and a compelling influence 
stronger than himself seemed to urge him on to the in¬ 
stant fulfillment of his purpose. The more he thought 
about it the more restless he became, and the more eagerly 
desirous to prove, with the least possible delay, the truth 
or the falsity of his mystic vision at Dariel. By the light 
of the small lamp left on the table he consulted his map, 
—the map Heliobas had traced,—and also the written 
directions that accompanied it—though these he had read 
SO often over and over again that be knew them by heart, 


76 


ARDATH: 


They were simply and concisely worded thus: “ On the 
east bank of the Euphrates, nearly opposite the ‘ Her-, 
outage,’ there is the sunken fragment of a bronze Gate, 
formerly belonging to the Palace of the Babylonian Kings. 
Three miles and a half to the southwest of this fragment 
and in a direct line with it, straight across country, will 
be found a fallen pillar of red granite half buried in the 
earth. The square tract of land extending beyond this 
broken column is the field known to the Prophet Esdras 
as the ‘ field of Ardath .’ ” 

He was on the east bank of the Euphrates already,— 
and a walk of three miles and a half could surely be ac¬ 
complished in an hour or very little over that time. Hesi¬ 
tating no longer he made his way out of the house, 
deciding that if he met Elzear he would say he was going 
for a moonlight stroll before retiring to rest. That ven¬ 
erable recluse, however, was nowhere to be seen,—and as 
the door of the “ Hermitage ” was only fastened with a 
light latch he had no difficulty in effecting a noiseless 
exit. Once in the open air he stopped, . . . startled by the 
sound of full, fresh, youthful voices singing in clear and 
harmonious unison . . . “ Kyrie eleison! Christe eleison ! 
Kyrie eleison! ” He listened, . . looking everywhere 
about him in utter amazement. There was no habitation 
in sight save Elzear’s,—and the chorus certainly did not 
proceed from thence, but rather seemed to rise upward 
through the earth, floating in released sweet echoes to 
and fro upon the hushed air. “ Kyrie eleison ! . . Christe 
eleison /” How it swayed about him like a close chime 
of bells! 

He stood motionless, perplexed and. wondering, . . . „ 
was there a subterranean grotto near at hand where de¬ 
votional chants were sung ?—or, .... and a slight tremor 
ran through him at the thought, .... was there some¬ 
thing supernatural in the music, notwithstanding its 
human-seeming speech and sound ? Just then it ceased, 
.... all was again silent as before, .... and angry 
with himself for his own foolish fancies, he set about the 
task of discovering the “ sunken fragment ” Heliobas had 
mentioned. Very soon he found it, driven deep into the 
soil and so blackened and defaced by time that it was im¬ 
possible to trace any of the elaborate carvings that must 
have once adorned it. In fact it would not have been rec¬ 
ognizable as a portion of a gate at all, ha4 it pot still 


-jsbAmr 


77 


possessed an enormous hinge which partly clung to it by 
means of one huge thickly rusted nail. Close beside it, 
grew a tree of weird and melancholy appearance—its 
trunk was split asunder and one half of it was withered. 
The other half leaning mournfully on one side bent down 
its branches to the ground, trailing a wealth of long, glossy 
green leaves in the dust of the ruined city. This was the 
famous tree called by the natives Athela, of which old 
legends say that it used to be a favorite evergreen much'* 
cultivated and prized by the Babylonian nobility, who 
loving its pleasant shade, spared no pains to make it grow? 
in their hanging gardens and spacious courts, though its 
nature was altogether foreign to the soil. And now, with 
none to tend it or care whether it flourishes or decays, it 
faithfully clings to the deserted spot where it was once 
so tenderly fostered, showing its sympathy with the 
surrounding desolation, by growing always in split halves, 
one withered and one green—a broken-hearted creature, 
yet loyal to the memory of past love and joy. Alwyn 
stood under its dark boughs, knowing nothing of its 
name or history,—every now and then a wailing whisper 
seemed to shudder through it, though there was no wind, 
—and he heard the eerie lamenting sigh with an in¬ 
voluntary sense of awe. The whole scene was far more 
impressive by night than by day,—the great earth 
mounds of Babylon looked Mke giant graves inclosing a 
glittering ring of winding waters. Again he examined 
the imbedded fragment of the ancient gate,—and then 
feeling quite certain of his starting-point he set his face 
steadily toward the southwest,—there the landscape 
before him lay flat and bare in the beamy lustre of the 
moon. The soil was sandy and heavy to the tread,— 
moreover it was an excessively hot night,—too hot to 
walk fast. He glanced at his watch,—it was a few* 
minutes past ten o’clock. Keeping up the moderate pace \ 
the heat enforced, it was possible he might reach the mys-' 
terious field about half-past eleven, . . perhaps earlier. 
And now his nerves began to quiver with strong ex¬ 
citement, . . . had he yielded to the promptings of his 
own feverish impatience, he would most probably have 
run all the way in spite of the sultriness of the air,—but 
he restrained this impulse, and walked leisurely on pur¬ 
pose, reproaching himself as he went along for the utter 
absurdity of his expectations. 



78 


ABDAT3. 


“ Was ever madman more mad than I! ” he murmured 
with some self-contempt—“ What logical human being in 
his right mind would be guilty of such egregious folly! 
But am I logical? Certainly not! Am I in my right 
mind ? I think I am,—yet I may be wrong. The question 
remains, . . . what is logic? . . . and what is being in 
one’s right mind ? No one can absolutely decide! Let me 
see if I can review calmly my ridiculous position. It 
comes to this,—I insist on being mesmerized . . I have a 
dream, . . and I see a woman in the dream ”■—here he sud¬ 
denly corrected himself . . “ a woman did I say ? No! 

. . she was something far more than that! A lovely 
phantom—a dazzling creature of my own imagination . . 
an exquisite ideal whom I will one day immortalize . . 
yes !—immortalize in song! ” 

He raised his eyes as he spoke to the dusky firmament 
thickly studded with stars, and just then caught sight of 
a fleecy silver-rimmed cloud passing swiftly beneath the 
moon and floating downwards toward the earth,—it was 
shaped like a white-winged bird, and was here and there 
tenderly streaked with pink, as though it had just travelled 
from some distant land where the sun was rising. It was 
the only cloud in the sky,—and it had a peculiar, almost 
phenomenal effect by reason of its rapid motion, there being 
not the faintest breeze stirring. Alwyn watched it glid¬ 
ing down the heavens till it had entirely disappeared, and 
then began his meditations anew. 

“Any one,—even without magnetic'influence being 
brought to bear upon him, might have visions such as 
mine! Take an opium-eater, for instance, whose life is 
one long confused vista of visions,—suppose he were to 
accept all the wild suggestions offered to his drugged 
brain, and persist in following them out to some sort of 
definite conclusion,—the only place for that man would 
be a lunatic asylum. Even the most ordinary persons, 
whose minds are never excited in any abnormal way, are 
subject to very curious and inexplicable dreams,—but for 
all that, they are not such fools as to believe in them. 
True, there is my poem,—I don’t know how I wrote it, 
yet written it is, and complete from beginning to end— 
an actual tangible result of my vision, and strange enough 
in its way, to say the least of it. But what is stranger 
still is that I love the radiant phantom that I saw . . . yes, 
actually love her with a love no mere woman, were she 


ARDATH. 


79 


fair as Troy’s Helen, could ever arouse in me! Of course, 
—in spite of the contrary assertions made by that remark¬ 
ably interesting Chaldean monk Heliobas,—I feel I am the 
victim of a brain-delusion,—therefore it is just as well I 
should see this ‘ field of Ardath’ and satisfy myself that 
nothing comes of it—in which case I shall be cured of my 
craze.” 

He walked on for some time, and presently stopped a 
moment to examine his map by the light of the moon. As 
he did so, he became aware of the extraordinary, almost 
terrible, stillness surrounding him. He had thought the 
“ Hermitage ” silent as a closed tomb—but it was nothing 
to the silence here. He felt it inclosing him like a thick 
wall on all sides,—he heard the regular pulsations of 
his own heart—even the rushing of his own blood—but 
no other sound was audible. Earth and the air seemed 
breathless, as though with some pent-up mysterious excite¬ 
ment,—the stars were like so many large living eyes 
eagerly gazing down on the solitary human being who 
thus wandered at night in the land of the prophets of old 
—the moon itself appeared to stare at him in open won¬ 
derment. He grew uncomfortably conscious of this 
speechless watchfulness of nature,—he strained his ears to 
listen, as it were to the deepening dumbness of all existing 
things,—and to conquer the strange sensations that were 
overcoming him, he proceeded at a more rapid pace,—but 
in two or three minutes came again to an abrupt halt. 
For there in front of him, right across his path, lay the 
fallen pillar which, according to Heliobas, marked the 
boundary to the field he sought! Another glance at his 
map decided the position . . he had reached his iourney’s 
end at last! What was the time ? He looked—it was 
just twenty minutes past eleven. 

A curious, unnatural calmness suddenly possessed him, 
. . . he surveyed with a quiet, almost cold, unconcern 
the prospect before him,—a wide level square of land 
covered with tufts of coarse grass and clumps of wild 
tamarisk, . . . nothing more. This was the Field of 
Ardath . . this bare, unlovely wilderness without so much 
as a tree to grace its outline! From where he stood he 
could view its whole extent,—and as he beheld its com¬ 
plete desolation he smiled,—a faint, half-bitter smile. He 
thought of the words in the ancient book of “ Esdras: ” 
u And the Angel bade me enter a waste field , and the field 


so 


ABBATH. 


was barren and dry save of herbs, and the name of the field 
was Ardath. And I wandered therein through the hours 
of the long night, and the silver eyes of the field did open 
before me and therein I saw signs and wonders .” 

44 Yes,—the field is 4 barren and dry 5 enough in all con¬ 
science ! ” he murmured listlessly—“ But as for the 4 silver 
eyes ’ and the 4 signs and wonders,’ they must have 
existed only in the venerable Prophet’s imagination, just 
as my flower-crowned Angel-maiden exists in mine 
Well! . . now, Theos Alwyn ” . . he continued, apos¬ 
trophizing himself aloud,— 44 Are you contented ? Are 
you quite convinced of your folly ? . . and do you acknowl¬ 
edge that a fair Dream is as much of a lie and a cheat as 
all the other fair-seeming things that puzzle and torture 
poor human nature ? Return to your former condition 
of reasoning and reasonable skepticism,—aye, even 
atheism if you will, for the materialists are right, . . . you 
cannot prove a God or the possibility of any purely spirit¬ 
ual life. Why thus hanker after a phantom loveliness ? 
Fame—fame! Win fame ! . . that is enough for you in 
this world, . . and as for a next world, who believes in it ? 
—and who, believing, cares ? ” 

Soliloquizing in this fashion, he set his foot on Ardath 
itself, determining to walk across and around it from end 
to end. The grass was long and dry, yet it made no rustle 
beneath his tread . . he seemed to be shod with the magic 
shoes of silence. He walked on till he reached about the 
middle of the field, where perceiving a broad flat stone 
near him, he sat down to rest. There was a light mist 
rising,—a thin moonlit-colored vapor that crept slowly 
upward from the ground and remained hovering like a 
wide, suddenly-spun gossamer web, some two or three 
h inches above it, thus giving a cool, luminous, watery effect 
1 to the hot and arid soil. 

44 According to the Apocrypha, Esdras 4 sat among the 
flowers,”’ he idly mused— 44 Well! . . perhaps there were 
flowers in those days,—but it is very evident there are 
none now. A more dreary, utterly desolate place than 
this famous 4 Ardath ’ I have never seen ! ” 

At that moment a subtle fragrance scented the still air, 
... a fragrance deliciously sweet, as of violets mingled 
with myrtle. He inhaled the delicate odor, surprised and 
confounded. 

“ Flowers after all! ” he exclaimed. ... 44 Or maybe 


AEBATH. 


81 


some aromatic herb . . and he bent down to examine 
the turf at his feet. To his amazement he perceived a thick 
cluster of white blossoms, star-shaped and glossy-leaved, 
with deep golden centres, wherein bright drops of dew 
sparkled like brilliants, and from whence puffs of per¬ 
fume rose like incense swung at unseen altars ! lie 
looked at them in doubt that was almost dread, . . . were 
they real ? . . were these the “ silver eyes ” in which Esdras 
, had seen “ signs and wonders ” ? . . .or was he hopelessly 
brain-sick with delusions, and dreaming again ? 

He touched them hesitatingly . . . they were actual liv¬ 
ing things, with creamy petals soft as velvet,—he was 
about to gather one of them,—when all at once his atten¬ 
tion was caught and riveted by something like a faint 
shadow gliding across the plain. A smothered cry escaped 
his lips, ... he sprang erect and gazed eagerly forward, 
half in hope,—half in fear. What slight Figure was that, 
pacing slowly, serenely, and all alone in the moonlight ? 
. . . Without another instant’s pause he rushed impetu¬ 
ously toward it,—heedless that as he went, he trod on 
thousands of those strange starry blossoms, which now, 
with sudden growth, covered and whitened every inch of 
the ground, thus marvellously fulfilling the words spoken 
of old: . . . “ Behold the field thou thoughtest barren; 

how great a glory hath the moon unveiled / ” 


CHAPTER X. 
god’s maiden edris. 

He ran oil swiftly for a few paces,—then coming ‘more 
closely in view of the misty Shape he pursued, he checked 
himself abruptly and stood still, his heart sinking with a 
bitter and irrepressible sense of disappointment. Here 
surely was no Angel wanderer from unseen spheres ! . . . 
only a girl, clad in floating gray draperies that clung 
softly to her slim figure, and trailed behind her as she 
moved sedately along through the snow-white blossoms 
that bent beneath her noiseless tread. He had no eyes 
for the strange flower-transfiguration of the lately barren 
land,—all his interest was centered on the slender, grace¬ 
ful form of the mysterious Maiden. She, meanwhile, went 
on her way, till she reached the western boundary of the 
6 


82 


ARDATH. 


field,—there she turned, . . hesitated a moment, . . and 
then came back straight toward him. He w r atched her 
approach as though she were some invisible fate,—and a 
tremor shook his limbs as she drew nearer . . still nearer! 
He could see her distinctly now, all but her face,—that F 
was in shadow, for her head was bent and her eyes were 
downcast. Her long, fair hair flowed in a loose rippling 
mass over her shoulders . . she wore a wreath of the Ardatli 
flowers, and carried a cluster of them clasped between her 
small, daintily shaped hands. A few steps more, and she 
was close beside him—she stopped as if in expectation of 
some word or sign . . but he stood mute and motionless, 
not daring to speak or stir. Then—without raising her 
eyes—she passed, . . passed like a flitting vapor,—and he 
remained as though rooted to the spot, in a sort of vague, 
dumb bewilderment! Ilis stupefaction was brief how¬ 
ever—rousing himself to swift resolution, he hastened, 
after her. 

“ Stay! stay! ” he cried aloud. 

Obedient to his call she paused, but did not turn. He 
came up with her. ... he caught at her robe, soft to the 
touch as silken gauze, and overwhelmed by a sudden 
emotion of awe and reverence, he sank on his knees. 

“Who, and what are you?” he murmured in trem¬ 
bling tones—“ Tell me! If you are mortal maid I will not 
harm you, I swear! . . . See ! . . I am only a poor crazed 
fool that loves a Dream, . . . that stakes his life upon a 
chance of Heaven, . . pity me as you are gentle! . . . but 
do not fear me . . only speak ! ” 

Ho answer came. He looked up,—and now in the rich 
radiance of the moon beheld her face . . how like, and 
yet how altogether unlike it was to the face of the Angel 
in his vision! For that ethereal Being had seemed daz- 
zlingly, supremely beautiful beyond all mortal power of 
description,—whereas this girl was simply fair, small, 
and delicate, with something wistful and pathetic in the 
lines of her sweet mouth, and shadows as of remembered 
sorrows slumbering in the depths of her serene, dove-like 
eyes. Her fragile figure drooped wearily as though she 
were exhausted by some long fatigue, . . yet, . . . gazing 
down upon him, she smiled, . . . and in that smile, the 
faint resemblance she bore to his Spirit-ideal flashed out 
like a beam of sunlight, though it vanished again as 
quickly as it had shone. He waited eagerly to hear her 



A it DATE. 


83 

Vbice, 1 1 i Waited in a sort of breathless suspense,—but as 
she still kept silence, he sprang up from his kneeling 
attitude and seized her hands . . how soft they were and 
warm !—he folded them in his own and drew her closer 
to himself . . . the flowers she held fell from her grasp, 
and lay in a tumbled fragrant heap between them. His 
brain was in a whirl—the Past and the Future—the Real 
and the Unreal—the Finite and the Infinite—seemed all 
merging into one another without any shade of differ¬ 
ence or division! 

“We have met very strangely, you and I!”—he said, 
scarcely conscious of the words he uttered—“ Will you 
not tell me your name?” 

A faint sigh escaped her. 

“My name is Edris,” she answered, in low musical 
accents, that carried to his sense of hearing a suggestion 
of something sweet and familiar. 

“ Edris ! ” he repeated—“ Edris ! ” and gazing at her 
dreamily he raised her hands to his lips and kissed them 
gently—“ My fairest Edris! From whence do you come ? ” 

She met his eyes with a mild look of reproach and 
wonderment. 

“ From a far, far country, Theos ! ” and he started as 
she thus addressed him—“ A land where no love is wasted 
and no promise forgotten! ” 

Again that mystic light passed over her pale face—the 
blossom-coronal she wore seemed for a moment to glitter 
like a circlet of stars. Ilis heart beat quickly—could he 
believe her ? . . was she in very truth that shining Peri 
whose aerial loveliness had so long haunted his imagi¬ 
nation ? Hay!—it was impossible! . . for if she were, 
why should she veil her native glory in such simple 
maiden guise ? 

Searchingly he studied every feature of her counte¬ 
nance, and as he did so his doubts concerning her spirit- 
origin became more and more confirmed. She was a 
living, breathing woman—an actual creature of flesh and 
blood,—yet how account for her appearance on the field 
of Ardath ? This puzzled him . . till all at once a logical 
explanation of the whole mystery dawned upon his mind. 
Heliobas had sent her hither on purpose to meet him! 
Of course! how dense he had been not to see through so 
transparent a scheme before ! The clever Chaldean had 
resolved that he, Theos Alwyn, should somehow be 


84 


AM) Am. 


brought to accept his trance as a real experience, so that 
henceforth his faith in “ things unseen and eternal ” might 
be assured. Many psychological theorists would uphold 
such a deceit as not only permissible, but even praise¬ 
worthy, if practiced for the furtherance of a good cause. 
Even the venerable hermit Elzear might have shared in 
the conspiracy, and this “ Edris,” as she called herself, 
was no doubt perfectly trained in the part she had to play! 
A plot for his conversion! . . . well! . . he would enter 
into it himself, he resolved! . . . why not ? The girl was 
exquisitely fair,—a veritable Psyche of soft charms !—and 
a little lovemaking by moonlight would do no harm, . . 
.... here he suddenly became aware that while these 
thoughts were passing through his brain he had uncon¬ 
sciously allowed her hands to slip from his hold, and she 
now stood apart at some little distance, her eyes fixed 
full upon him with an expression of most plaintive 
piteousness. He made a hasty step or two toward her,— 
and as he did so, his pulses began to throb with an ex¬ 
traordinary sensation of pleasure,—pleasure so keen as 
to be almost pain. 

“ Edris ! ” . .he whispered,—“ Edris ...” and stopped 
irresolutely. 

She looked up at him with the appealing wistfulness 
of a lost and suffering child, and a slight shudder ram 
through all her delicate frame. 

“ I am cold, Theos! ” she murmured half beseechingly, 
stretching out her hands to him once more,—hands as 
fine and fair as lily-leaves,—little white hands which he 
gazed at wonderingly, yet did not take.. “ Cold and very 
weary! The way has been long, and the earth is 
dark! ” 

“ Dark ? ” repeated Alwyn mechanically, still absorbed 
in the dubious contemplation of her lovely yielding form, 
her sweet upturned face and gold-glistening hair— 
“ Dark ? . . here ?. . beneath the brightness of the moon ? 
Nay,—I have seen many a full day look less radiant than 
this night of stars ! ” 

Her eyes dwelt upon him with a certain pathetic be¬ 
wilderment,—she let her extended arms drop wearily at 
her sides, and a shadow of pained recollection crossed 
the fairness of her features. 

“ Ah, I forgot! . . . ” and she sighed deeply —“ This is 
that strange, sad world where Darkness is called Light.’’ 


ABDATH. 


85 


At these words uttered with so much sorrowful mean¬ 
ing, a quick thrill stirred Alwyn’s blood, an inexplicable 
sharp thrill, that was like the touch of scorching flame. 
He gazed at her perplexedly . . . his pride resented what 
he imagined to be the deception practiced upon him, but at 
the same time he was not insensible to the weird ro¬ 
mance of the situation. 

He began to consider that as this fair girl, trained 
so admirably in mystical speech and manner, had 
evidently been sent on purpose to meet him, he could 
scarcely be blamed for taking her as she presented her¬ 
self, and enjoying to the full a ‘thoroughly novel and 
picturesque adventure. 

His eyes flashed as he surveyed her standing there 
before him, utterly unprotected and at his mercy—his old, 
languid, skeptical smile played on his proud lips,—that 
smile of the marble Antinous which says “ Bring me face 
to face with Truth itself and I shall still doubt! ” .. An 
expression of reluctant admiration and awakening passion 
dawned on his countenance, .... he was about to speak, 
—when she whose looks were fastened on him with 
intense, powerful, watchful, anxious entreaty, suddenly 
wrung her hands together as though in despair, and gave 
vent to a desolate sobbing cry that smote him to the very 
heart. 

“ Theos! Theos! ” and her voice pealed out on the 
breathless air in sweet, melodious, broken echoes .. “ Oh, 
my unfaithful Beloved, what can I do for thee! A love 
unseen thou wilt not understand,—a love made manifest 
thou wilt not recognize! Alas !—my journey is in vain . .. 
my errand hopeless! For while thine unbelief resists 
my pleading, how can I lead thee from danger into safety ? 
. .'how bridge the depths between our parted souls ?. . 
how win for thee pardon and blessing from Christ the 
King!” 

Bright tears filled her eyes and fell fast and thick 
through her long, drooping lashes, and Alwyn, smitten 
with remorse at the sight of such grief, sprang to her 
side overcome by shame, love, and penitence. 

“Weeping?. . and for me?”—he exclaimed—“Sweet 
Edris ! . . Gentlest of maidens ! . . Weep not for one un¬ 
worthy* . but rather smile and speak again of love! . . . ” 
and now his words pouring forth impetuously, seemed to 
Htter themselves independently of any previous thought, 



86 


ABDATR. 


_« Yes! . speak only of love,—and the discourse of those 
tuneful lips shall be my gospel, . the glance of those, soft 
eyes my creed, . . and as for pardon and blessing I crave 
none but thine ! I sought a Dream . . I have found a 
fair Reality. . . a living proof of Love’s divine omnipo¬ 
tence ! Love is the only god—who would doubt his sov¬ 
ereignty, or grudge him his full measure of worship? . . 
Not I, believe me! ”—and carried away by the force of a 
resistless inward fervor, he threw himself once more at 
her feet—“ See!—here do I pay my vo"ws at Love’s high 
altar!—heart’s desire shall be the prayer—heart’s ecstasy 
the praise ! . . together we will celebrate our glad service 
of love, and heaven itself shall sanctify this Eve of St. 
Edris and All Angels! ” 

She listened,—looking down upon him with grave, half 
timid tenderness,—her tears dried, and a sudden hope 
irradiated her fair face with a soft, bright flush, as lovely 
as the light of morning falling on newly opened flowers. 
When he ceased, she spoke—her accents breaking through 
the silence like clear notes of music sweetly sung. 

“So be it!” she said. . . “May Heaven truly sanctify 
all pure thoughts, and free the soul of my Beloved from 
sin! ” 

And slowly bending forward, as a delicate iris-blossom 
bends to the sway of the wind, she laid her hands about 
his neck, and touched his lips with her own. 

Ah! . . what divine ecstasy,—what wild and fiery 
transport filled him then ! . . Her kiss, like a penetrating 
lighting-flash, pierced to the very centre of his being,— 
the moonbeams swam round him in eddying circles of 
gold—the white field heaved to and fro, ... he caught 
her waist and clung to her, and in the burning marvel of 
that moment he forget everything, save that, whether 
spirit or mortal, she was in woman’s witching shape, and 
that all the glamour of her beauty was his for this one 
night at least, . this night which now in the speechless* 
glorious delirium of love that overwhelmed him, seemed 
like the Mahometan’s night of Al-Kadr, “ better than a 
thousand months! ” 

Drawn to her by some subtle mysterious attraction 
which he could neither explain nor control, and absorbed 
in a rapture beyond all that his highest and most daring 
flights of poetical fancy had ever conceived, he felt as 
though fgry life if ere ebbing put of him to become 



ARDATH. 


87 


part of liers, and this thought was strangely sweet,—a 
perfect consummation of all his best desires! . a . 

All at once a cold shudder ran freezingly through his 
Terns,—a something chill and impalpable appeared to pass 
between him and her caressing arms—his limbs grew 

numb and heavy—his sight began to fail him.he 

was sinking . . . sinking, he knew not where, when 
suddenly she withdrew herself from his embrace. In¬ 
stantly his strength came back to him with a rush—he* 
sprang to his feet and stood erect, breathless, dizzy, and 
confused—his pulses beating like hammer-strokes and 
every fiber in his frame quivering with excitement. 

Entranced, impassioned, elated,—filled with unutterable 
incomprehensible joy, he would have clasped her again to 
his heart,—but she retreated swiftly from him, and stand¬ 
ing several paces $ff, motioned him not to approach her 
more nearly. He scarcely heeded her warning gest¬ 
ure, . . . plunging recklessly through the flowers he had 
almost reached her side, when to his amazement and fear, 
his eager progress was stopped! 

Stopped by some invisible, intangible barrier, which 
despite all his efforts, forcibly prevented him from ad¬ 
vancing one step further,—she was close within an arm’s 
length of him—and yet he could not touch her! . . Noth¬ 
ing apparently divided them, save a small breadth of the 
Ardath blossoms gleaming ivory-soft in the moonlight . . 
nevertheless that invincible influence thrust him back and 
held him fast, as though he were chained to the ground 
with weights of iron! 

“ Edris! ” . he cried loudlyf his former transport of 
delight changed into agony . . “ Edris! . . Come to me! 
I cannot come to you! What is this that parts us ? ” 

“Death!” she answered . . and the solemn word 
seemed to toll slowly through the still air like a knell. 

He stood bewildered and dismayed. Death! What 
could she mean ? What in the name of all her beautiful, 
delicate, glowing youth, had she to do with death ? Gaz¬ 
ing at her in mute wonder, he saw her stoop and gather one 
flower from the clusters growing thickly around her—she 
held it shieldwise against her breast, where it shone like 
a large white jewel, and regarded him with sweet, wistful 
eyes full of a mournful longing. 

“ Death lies between us, my Beloved! ” she continued— 
“ One line of shadow . . only one little line! But thou 



88 


ARB ATE. 


mayest not pass it, save when God commands,—and I—I 
cannot! For I know naught of death, . save that it is a 
heavy dreamless sleep allotted to over-wearied mortals, 
wherein they gain brief rest ’twixt many lives,—lives 
that, like recurring dawns, rouse them, anew to labor. 
How often hast thou slept thus, my Theos, and forgotten 
me! ” 

She paused, . . . and Alwyn met her clear, steadfast 
looks with a swift glance of something like defiance. For 
as she spoke, his previous idea concerning her came back 
upon him with redoubled force. He was keenly conscious 
of the vehement fever of love into which her presence had 
thrown him,—but all the same he was unable to dispossess 
himself of the notion that she was a pupil and an accom¬ 
plice of Heliobas, thoroughly trained and practiced in his 
mysterious doctrine, and that therefore she mo^t probably 
had some magnetic power in herself that atlier pleasure 
not only attracted him to her, but also held him thus 
motionless at a distance from her. 

She talked, of course, in an indefinite mystic way either 
to intimidate or convince him . . . but, . . and he smiled 
a little . . in any case it only rested with himself to un¬ 
mask this graceful pretender to angelic honors! And while 
he thought thus, her soft tones trembled on the silence 
again, ... he listened as a dreaming mariner might 
listen to the fancied singing of the sea-fairies. 

“ Through long bright aeons of endless glory/’ she said 
—“ I have waited and prayed for thee! I have pleaded 
thy cause before the blinding splendors of God’s Throne, 

I have sung the songs of thy native paradise, but thou, 
grown dull of hearing, hast caught but the echo of the 
music! Life after life hast thou lived, and given no 
thought to me—yet I remember and am faithful! Hea¬ 
ven is not all Heaven to me without thee, my Beloved, . . 
and now in this time of thy last probation, . . now, if > 
thou lovest me indeed . . . .” [ 

“ Love thee ? ” suddenly exclaimed Theos, half beside ! 
himself with the strange passion of yearning her words 
awakened in him—“ Love thee, Edris ?—Aye! . as the 
gods loved when earth was young! . with the fullness of 
the heart and the vigor of glad life even so I love thee! 
What sayest thou of Heaven ? . Heaven is here—here on 
this bridal field of Ardath, o’er-canopied with stars! 
Come, sweet one ? , cease to play this mystic midnight 


ABLATE. 


89 


fantasy—I have done with dreams! . . . Edris, be thy¬ 
self! . for thou art Woman, not Angel—thy kiss was 
warm as wine! Nay, why shrink from me? this, as 
she retreated still further away, her eyes flashing with 
unearthly brilliancy, . “I will make thee a queen, fair 
Edris, as poets ever make queens of the women they love, 
—my fame shall be a crown for thee to wear,—a crown 
that the whole world, gazing on, shall envy! ” 

And in the heat and ardor of the moment, forgetful of 
the unseen barrier that divided her from him, he made a 
violent effort to spring forward—when lo! a wave of rip¬ 
pling light appeared to break from beneath her feet, . it 
rolled toward him, and completely flooded the space be- 
tween them like a glittering pool,—and in it the flowers, 
of Ardath swayed to and fro as water-lilies on a wood¬ 
land lake sway to the measured dash of passing oars! 
Starting back with a cry of terror, he gazed wildly on this 
miracle,—a voice richer than all music rang silvery clear 
across the liquid radiance. 

“Fame!” said the voice . . . “Wouldst thou crown 
Me, Theos, with so perishable a diadem ? ” 

Paralyzed and speechless, he lifted his straining, daz¬ 
zled eyes—was that Edris ?—that lustrous figure, delicate 
as a sea-mist with the sun shining through? He stared 
upon her as a dying man might stare for the last time on 
the face of his nearest and dearest, .... he saw her soft 
gray garments change to glistening white, . . . the 
wreath she wore sparkled as with a million dewdrops . . 
a roseate halo streamed above her and around her,—long 
streaks of crimson flared down the sky like threads of fire 
swung from the stars,—and in the deepening glory, her 
countenance, divinely beautiful, yet intensely sad, ex¬ 
pressed the touching hope and fear of one who makes a 
final farewell appeal. Ah God! . . he knew her now! . . 
too late, too late he knew her! . . the Angel of his vision 
stood before him! . . and humbled to the very dust and 
ashes of despair he loathed himself for his unworthiness 
and lack of faith! 

“ O doubting and unhappy one! ” she went on, in ac¬ 
cents sweeter than a chime of golden bells—“ Thou art 
lost in the gloom of the Sorrowful Star where naught is 
known of life save its shadow! Lost . . and as yet I 
cannot rescue thee—ah! forlorn Edris that I am, left 
lonely up in Heaven! But prayers are heard, and God’s 


90 


ABDATH. 


great patience never tires,—learn therefore *from, the peril* i 
of the pasty the perils of the future ’ — and weigh against 
an immortal destiny of love the worth of fame! ” 

Wider and more dazzling grew the brilliancy surround¬ 
ing her—raising her eyes, she clasped her hands in art 
attitude of impassioned supplication .... 

“ O fair King Christ! ” she cried, and her voice seemecl 
to strike a melodious passage through the air . . “ THOtf 
canst prevail! ” A burst of music answered her, . 
music that rushed wind-like downwards and swept in 
strong vibrating chords over the land,—again the “ Kyrie 
eleison ! Christe eleiso?i! Kyrie eleison ! ” pealed forth 
in the same full youthful-toned chorus that had before 
sounded so mysteriously outside Elzear’s hermitage—and 
the separate crimson rays glittering aurora-wise about 
her radiant figure, suddenly melted all"together in the 
form of a great cross, which, absorbing moon and stars in 
its fiery redness, blazed from end to end of the eastern 
horizon! 

Then, like a fair white dove or delicate butterfly she 
rose .... she poised herself above the bowing Ardath 


bloom.anon, soaring aloft, she floated higher 

.... higher! . . . . and ever higher, serenely and with 


aerial slow ease,—till drawn into the glory of that wond¬ 
rous flaming cross whose outstretched beams seemed 
waiting to receive her,—she drifted straight up wards 
through its very centre .... and so vanished! . . . . 

Theos stared aghast at the glowing sky . . whither had 
she gone? Her words still rang in his ears,—the warmth 
of her kiss still lingered on his lips,—he loved her ! . . he 
worshipped her! . . . why, why had she left him “ lost”as 
she -herself had said, in a world that was mere emptiness 
without her ? He struggled for utterance . . . 

“ Edris . . t ” he whispered hoarsely—“ Edris ! . . . My 
Angel-love!. , . come back 1 Come back . . . pity 
me!.forgive! . . . Edris ! ” 

His voice died in a hard sob of imploring agony,— 
smitten, to the very soul by a remorse greater than he 
could bear, his strength failed him, and he fell senseless, 
face forward among the flowers of the Prophet’s field;... 
flowers that, circling snowily around his dark and pros¬ 
trate form, looked like fairy garlands bordering a Poet’s 
Grave! 






A RD A TH . 


91 


PART II.—Iff AL-KYRIS. 

“ That whicli hath been, is now : and that which is to be, hath 
already been : . . and God requireth that which is past.” 

Ecclesiastes. 


CHAPTER XI. 

THE MARVELLOUS CITY. 

Profound silence,—profound unconsciousness,—obliv¬ 
ious rest! Such, are the soothing ministrations of kindly 
Nature to the overburdened spirit; Nature, who in her 
tender wisdom and maternal solicitude will not permit us 
to suffer beyond a certain limit. Excessive pain, whether 
it be physical or mental, cannot last long,—and human 
anguish wound up to its utmost quivering-pitch finds at 
the very height of desolation, a strange hushing, Lethean 
calm. Even so it was with Theos Alwyn,—drowned in 
the deep stillness of a merciful swoon, he had sunk, as it 
were, out of life,—far out of the furthest reach or sense 
of time, in some vast unsounded gulf of shadows where 
earth and heaven were alike forgotten!. 

How long he lay thus he never knew,— but he was 
roused at last . . roused by the pressure of something 
cold and sharp against his throat, . . and on languidly 
opening his eyes he found himself surrounded by a small 
body of men in armor, who, leaning on tall pikes which 
glistened brilliantly in the full sunlight, surveyed him 
with looks of derisive amusement. One of these, closer to 
him than the rest, and who seemed from his dress and 
bearing to be some officer in authority, held instead of a 
pike a short sword, the touch of whose pointed steel 
blade had been the effectual means of awakening him 
from his lethargy. 

“ How now! ” said this personage in a rough voice as 
he withdrew his weapon—“ What idle fellow art 
thou? . . . Traitor or spy? Fool thou must be, and 
breaker of the King’s law, else thou liadst never dared to 
bask in such swine-like ease outside the gates of Al-Kyris 
the Magnificent! ” 



ARDATH. 


00 

Al-Kyris the Magnificent! What was the man talking 
about ? Uttering a hasty exclamation, Ahvyn staggered to 
his feet with an effort, and shading his eyes from the hot 
glare of the sun, stared bewilderedly at his interlocutor. 

“ What . . what is this ? ” he stammered dreamily—“ I 
do not understand you! . . . . I . . I have slept on the 
field of Ardath ! ” 

The soldiers burst into a loud laugh, in which their 
leader joined. 

“ Thou hast drunk deep, my friend! ” he observed, 
putting up his sword with a sharp clatter into its shining 
sheath,— “What name sayst thou? . . Ardath? We 
know it not, nor dost thou, I warrant, when sober! Go 
to—make for thy home speedily! Aye, aye! the flavor of 
good wine clings to thy mouth still,—’tis a pleasant 
sweetness that I myself am partial to, and I can pardon 
those who, like thee, love it somewhat too well! Away !— 
and thank the gods thou hast fallen into the hands of the 
King’s guard, rather then Lysia’s priestly patrol! See! 
the gates are open,—in with thee! and cool thy head at 
the first fountain ? ” 

“ The gates ? ” . . . What gates ? Removing his 
hand from his eyes Alwyn gazed around confusedly. He 
was standing on an open stretch of level road, dustily- 
white, and dry, with long-continued heat,—and right in 
front of him was an enormously high wall, topped with 
rows of bristling iron spikes, and guarded by the gates 
alluded to,—huge massive portals seemingly made of 
finely molded brass, arid embellished on either side by 
thick, round, stone watch towers, from whose summits 
scarlet pennons drooped idly in the windless air. Amazed, 
and full of a vague, trembling terror, he fixed his wonder¬ 
ing looks once more upon his strange companions, who 
in their turn regarded him with cool military indiffer¬ 
ence.” 

“ I must be mad or dreaming,” he thought,—then grow¬ 
ing suddenly desperate he stretched out his hands with a 
wild appealing gesture: 

“ I swear to you I know nothing of this place! ” he 
cried—“ I never saw it before! Some trick has been 
played on me . . . who brought me here? Where is 
Elzear the hermit?. . the Ruins of Babylon?. . where 
is, ... . Good God! . . what fearful freak of fate is 
this!” 



AUDATH. 93 

The soldiers laughed again,—their commander looked 
at him a little curiously. 

“ Nay, art thou one of the escaped of Lysia’s lovers?” 
he asked suspiciously—“And has the Silver Nectar failed 
of its usual action, and driven thy senses to the winds, 
that thou ravest thus ? For if thou art a stranger and 
knowest naught of us, how speakest thou our language? 
. . Why wearest thou the garb of our citizens ? ” 

Alwyn shrank and shivered as though he had received 
a deadening blow,—an awful, inexplicable chill horror 
froze his blood. It was true ! . . he understood the lan¬ 
guage spoken ! .... it was perfectly familiar to him,— 
more so than his own native tongue,—stop! what was 
his native tongue ? 

He tried to think—and, the sick fear at his heart grew 
stronger,—he could not remember a word of it! And his 
dress ! ... he glanced at it dismayed and appalled,—he 
had not noticed it till now. It bore some resemblance to 
the costume of ancient Greece, and consisted of a white 
linen tunic and loose upper vest, both garments being 
kept in place by a belt of silver. From this belt depended 
a sheathed dagger, a square waiting tablet, and a pencil¬ 
shaped implement which he immediately recognized as 
the antique form of stylus. His feet were shod with 
sandals—his arms were bare to the shoulder, and clasped 
at the upper part by two broad silver armlets richly 
chased. 

Noting all these details, the fantastic awfulness of his 
position smote him with redoubled force,—and he felt as 
a madman may feel when his impending doom has not 
entirely asserted itself,—when only grotesque and leer¬ 
ing suggestions of madness cloud his brain,—when hid¬ 
eous faces, dimly discerned, loom out of the chaos of his 
nightly visions,—and when all the air seems solid dark¬ 
ness, with one white line of fire cracking it asunder in the 
midst, and that the fire of his own approaching frenzy. 
Such a delirium of agony possessed Alwyn at that mo¬ 
ment,—he could have shrieked, laughed, groaned, wept, 
and fallen down in the dust before these bearded armed 
men, praying them to slay him with their weapons there 
where he stood, and put him mercifully and at once out of 
his mysterious misery. But an invisible influence stronger 
than himself, pevented him from becoming altogether the 
victim of his own torturing emotions, and he remained 



94 


ARDATH. 


erect and still as a marble figure, with a wondering, white 
piteous face of such unutterable affliction that the officer 
who watched him seemed touched, and, advancing, 
clapped his shoulder in a friendly manner. 

“ Come, come! ” he said'—“ Thou need’st fear nothing, 
—we are not the men to blab of thy trespass against the 
city’s edict,—for, of a truth, there is too much whisper¬ 
ing away of young and goodly lives nowadays. What! 
—-thou art not the first gay gallant, nor wilt thou be 
the last, that has seen the world turn upside down in a 
haze of love and late feasting! If thou hast not slept 
long enough, why sleep again an thou wilt,—but not 
here ...” 

He broke off abruptly,—a distant clatter of horses’ 
hoofs was heard, as of one galloping at full speed. The 
soilders started, and assumed an attitude of attention,— 
their leader muttered something like an oath, and seizing 
Alwyn by the arm, hurried him to the brass gates which, 
as he had said, stood open, and literally thrust him 
through. 

“ In, in, my lad! ” he urged with rough kindliness,— 
“ Thou hast a face fairer than that of the King’s own 
minstrel, and why wouldst thou die for sake of an extra 
cup of wine? If Lysia is to blame for this scattering of 
thy wits, take heed thou do not venture near her more— 
it is ill jesting with the Serpent’s sting! * Get thee hence 
quickly, and be glad of thy life,—thou hast many years 
before thee yet in which to play the lover and fool! ” 

With this enigmatical speech he signed to his men to 
follow him,—they all filed through the gates, which 
closed after them with a jarring clang, .... a dark 
bearded face peered out of a narrow loophole in one of the 
watch-towers, and a deep voice called: 

“ What of the hour ? ” 

The officer raised his gauntleted hand, and answered 
promptly: 

“ Peace and safety! ” ; 

“ Salutation! ” cried the voice again, 

“ Salutation! ” responded the officer, and with a reassur¬ 
ing nod and smile to the bewildered Alwyn, he gathered 
his little band around him, and they all marched off, the 
measured clink-clank ot their footsteps making metallio 
music, as they wheeled round a gorner and disappeared 
from sight, 


A RDA TIT. 


95 


Left to himself Alwyn’s first idea was to sit down in 
some quiet corner, and endeavor calmly to realize what 
strange and cruel thing had chanced to him. But hap¬ 
pening to look up, he saw the bearded face in the watch- 
tower observing him suspicion sly,—he therefore roused 
himself sufficiently to walk away, on and on, scarce heed¬ 
ing whither he Went, till he had completely lost sight of 
those great gold-glittering portals which had shut him, 
against his will, within the walls of a large, splendid, and 
populous City. Yes ! . . hopelessly perplexing and mad¬ 
dening as it was, there could be no doubt of this fact,— 
and though he again and again tried to convince himself 
that he was laboring under some wild and exceptional 
hallucination, his senses all gave evidence of the actual 
reality of his situation,—he felt, he moved, he heard, he 
saw, . . . he was even beginning to be conscious of hun¬ 
ger, thirst, and fatigue. 

The further he went, the more gorgeous grew the sur¬ 
roundings, .. his unguided steps wandered as it seemed, 
of their own accord, into wide streets, paved entirely with 
mosaics, and lined on both sides with lofty, picturesque, 
and palace-like buildings,—he crossed and recrossed broad 
avenues, shaded by tall feathery palms, and masses of 
graceful flowering foliage,—he passed rows upon rows of 
brilliant shops, whose frontages glittered with the most 
costly and beautiful wares of every description,—and as 
llie strolled about aimlessly, uncertain whither to go, he 
Was constantly jostled by the pressing throngs of people 
that crowded the thoroughfares, all more or less appar¬ 
ently bent on pleasure, to judge from their animated 
countenances and frequent bursts of gay laughter. 

The men were for the most part arrayed like himself, 
—though here and there he met some few whose garments 
were of soft silk instead of linen, who wore gold belts in 
place of silver, and who carried their daggers in sheaths 
that were literally encrusted all over with flashing 
' jewels. 

As lie advanced more into the city’s centre, the crowds 
increased,—so much so that the noise of traffic and clatter 
of tongues became quite deafening to his ears. Richly 
ornamented chariots drawn by spirited horses, and driven 
by personages whose attire seemed to be a positive blaze 
of gold and gems, rolled past in a continuous procession, 
—fruit-sellers, carrying their lovely luscious merchandise 


96 


ABB ATM. 


in huge gilded moss-wreathed baskets, stood at almost 
every corner,—flower-girls, fair as flowers, bore aloft in 
their gracefully praised arms wide wicker trays, over¬ 
flowing with odorous blossoms tied into clusters and 
wreaths,—and there were countless numbers of curious 
little open square carts to which mules, wearing collars 
of bells, were harnessed, the tinkle-tinkle of their constant 
passage through the throng making incessant merry 
music. These vehicles bore the names of traders,—pur¬ 
veyors in wine and dealers in all sorts of provisions,—but 
with the exception of such necessary business caterers, 
the streets were full of elegant loungers of both sexes, 
who seemed to have nothing whatever to do but amuse 
themselves. 

The women were especially noticeable for their lazy 
grace of manner,—they glided to and fro with an indolent 
floating ease that was indescribably bewitching,—the 
more so as many of them were endowed with exquisite 
beauty of form and feature,—beauty greatly enhanced by 
the artistic simplicity of their costume. 

This was composed of a straight clinging gown, slightly 
gathered at the throat, and bound about the waist with a 
twisted girdle of silver, gold, and, in some cases, jewels,— 
their arms, like those of the men, were bare, and their 
small, delicate feet were protected by sandals fastened 
with crossed bands of ribbon coquettishly knotted. The 
arrangement of their hair was evidently a matter of per¬ 
sonal taste, and not the slavish copying of any set fashion, 

-—some allowed it to hang in loosely flowing abundance 
over their shoulders,—others had it closely braided, or 
coiled carelessly in a thick soft mass at the top of the 
head,—but all without exception w*ore white veils,—veils, 
long, transparent, and filmy as gossamer, which they 
flung back or draped about them at their pleasure. . . . 
and presently, after watching several of these fairy creat¬ 
ures pass by and listening to their low laughter and dul¬ 
cet speech, a sudden memory leaped into Alwyn’s con¬ 
fused brain,—an old, old memory that seemed to have 
lain hidden among his thoughts for centuries,—the mem¬ 
ory of a story called “ Lamia” told in verse as delicious 
as music aptly played. Who wrote the story? . . He 
could not tell,—but he recollected that it was about a 
snake in the guise of a beautiful woman. And these 
women in this strange city looked as if they also had a 


Abdath. 


97 


snake-iike origin,—there was something so soft and lithe 
and undulating about their movements and gestures. 
Weary of walking, distracted by the ever-increasing 
clamor, and feeling lost among the crowd, he at last per¬ 
ceived a wide and splendid square, surrounded with 
stately houses, and having in its centre a huge, white 
granite obelisk which towered like a pillar of snow 
against the dense blue of the sky. Below it a massively 
sculptured lion, also of white granite, lay couchant, hold¬ 
ing a shield between its paws,—and on either side two 
fine fountains were in full play, the delicate spiral col¬ 
umns of water being dashed up beyond the extreme point 
of the obelisk, so that its stone face was wet and glisten 
ing with the tossing rainbow shower. 

Here he turned aside out of the main thoroughfare,— 
there were tall, shady trees all about, and fantastically 
carved benches underneath them, ... he determined to 
sit down and rest, and steadily think out his involved and 
peculiar condition of mind. 

As he passed the sculptured lion, he saw certain words 
engraved on the shield it held,—they were . .. “ Through 
the Lion and the Serpent shall Al-Kyris flourish .” 

There was no disorder in his intelligence concerning 
this sentence,—he was able to read it clearly and com¬ 
prehensively, . . and yet . . . what was the language in 
which it was written, and how did he come to know it so 
thoroughly? .... With a sigh that was almost a groan, 
he sank listlessly on a seat, and burying his head in his 
hands to shut out all the strange sights which so dire- 
fully perplexed his reason, he began to subject himself to 
a patient, serious cross-examination. 

In the first place , . Who was he? Part of the re¬ 
quired answer came readily,— Theos . Theos what ? His 
brain refused to clear up this point,—it repeated Theos 
Theos ,—over and over again, but no more! 

Shuddering with a vague dread, he asked himself the 
next question, . 0 <> « From whence had he come? The 
reply was direct and deoisive— From Ardath . 

But what was Ardath ? It was neither a country nor ~ 
city—it was a 66 waste field,” where he had seen e . 
ah! Whom had he seen ? He struggled furiously wit? 
himself for some response to this, . „ . none came l Tc 
tal dumb blankness was the sole result of the inward 
^ack to which, he subjected his thoughts l 

7 f —- - f: 




98 


All DATE. 


And where had he been before he ever saw Ardath ? 
. . had he no recollection of any other place, any other 
surroundings ?—Absolutely none !—torture his wits as he 
would ,—absolutely none! . . . This was frightful . . . 
incredible! . . Surely, surely, he mused piteously, there 
must have been something in his life before the name of 
“ Ardath ” had swamped his intelligence! . . 

He lifted his head, . . his face had grown ashen gray 
and rigid in the deep extremity of his speechless trouble 
and terror,—there was a sick faintness at his heart, and 
rising, he moved unsteadily to one of the great fountains, 
and there dipping his hands in the spray, he dashed some 
drops on his brow and eyes. Then, making a cup of the 
hollowed palms, he drank thirstily several draughts of 
the cool, sweet water,—it seemed to allay the fever in his 
blood. 

He looked around him with a wild, vague smile,—Al- 
Kyris! ... of course! ... he was in Al-Kyris!—why 
was he so distressed about it? It was a pleasant city,— 

there was much to see,—and also much to learn!. 

At that instant a loud blast of silver-toned trumpets split 
the air, followed by a storm-roar of distant acclamation 
surging up from thousands of throats,—crowds of men 
and women suddenly flocked into the Square, across it, 
and out of it again, all pressing impetuously in one direc¬ 
tion,—and urged forward by the general rush as well as 
by a corresponding impulse within himself, he flung all 
meditation to the winds, and plunged recklessly into the 
shouting, on sweeping throng. He was borne swiftly with 
it down a broad avenue lined with grand old trees and 
decked with flying flags and streamers, to the margin of a 
noble river, as still as liquid amber in the wide sheen and 
heat of the noonday sun. A splendid marble embank¬ 
ment, adorned with colossal statues, girdled it on both 
sides,—and here, under silken awnings of every color, 
pattern and design, an enormous multitude was assem¬ 
bled,—its white-attired, closely packed ranks stretching 
far away into the blue distance on either hand. 

All the attention of this vast concourse appeared to be 
centered on the slow approach of a strange, gilded vessel, 
that with great curved prow* and scarlet sails flapping 
idly in the faint breeze, was gliding leisurely yet majes¬ 
tically over the azure blaze of the smooth water. Huge 
oars like golden fins projected from her sides and dipped 




ARDATH. 


99 


lazily every now and then, apparently wielded by the 
hands of invisible rowers, whose united forces supplied 
the lack of the needful wind,—and as he caught sight of 
this cumbrously quaint galley, Theos, moved by sudden 
interest, elbowed his way resolutely through the dense 
crowd till he gained the edge of the embankment, where 
leaning against the marble balustrade, he watched with 
a curious fascination its gradual advance. 

Nearer and nearer it came, . . brighter and brighter 
glowed the vivid scarlet of its sails, . . a solemn sound 
of stringed music rippled enchantingly over the glassy 
river, mingling itself with the wild shouting of the 
populace,—shouting that seemed to rend the hollow vault 
of heaven! . . Nearer . . . nearer . . . and now the 
vessel slid round and curtsied forward, ... its propelling 
fins moved more rapidly . . another graceful sweep,— 
and lo! it fronted the surging throng like a glittering, 
fantastic Apparition drawn out of dreamland!. 

Theos stared at it, dazzled and stricken with a half¬ 
blind breathless wonder,—was ever a ship like this he 
thought?—a ship that sparkled all over as though it 

were carven out of one great burning jewel?. 

Golden hangings, falling in rich, loose folds, draped it 
gorgeously from stem to stern,—gold cordage looped the 
sails,—on the deck a band of young girls clad in white, 
and crowned with flowers, knelt, playing softly on 
quaintly shaped instruments,—and a cluster of tiny, serai- 
nude boys, fair as young cupids, were grouped in pretty 
reposeful attitudes along the edge of the gilded prow 
holding garlands of red and yellow blossoms which trailed 
down to the surface of the water beneath. 

As a half-slumbering man may note a sudden brilliant 
glare of sunshine flashing on the wall of his sleeping- 
chamber, so Theos at first viewed this floating pageant in 
confused, uncomprehending bewilderment, . . . when all 
at once his stupefied senses were roused to hot life and 
pulsing action,—with a smothered cry of ecstasy he 
fixed his straining, eager gaze on one supreme, fair 
Figure,—the central Glory of the marvellous picture! . . . 

A Woman or a Goddess?—a rainbow Flame in mortal 
shape?—a spirit of earth, air, fire, water? . . or a Thought 
of Beauty embodied into human sweetness and made per¬ 
fect? . . Clothed in gold attire, and girdled with gems, 
she stood, leaning indolently against the middle mast of 




100 


ABDATH. 


the vessel, her great, sombre, dusky eyes resting drowsily 
on the swarming masses of people, whose frenzied roar 
of rapture and admiration sounded like the breaking of 
billows. 

Presently, with a slow, solemn smile on her haughtily 
curved lips, she extended one hand and arm, snow-white 
and glittering with jewels, and made an imperious gesture 
to command silence. Instantly a profound hush ensued. 
Lifting a long, slender, white wand, at the end of which 
could be plainly seen the gleaming silver head of a Ser¬ 
pent, she described three circles in the air with a per¬ 
fectly even, majestic motion, and as she did this, her 
marvellous eyes turned toward Theos, and dwelt steadily 
upon him. 

He met her gaze fully, absorbing into his inmost soul 
the mesmeric spell of her matchless loveliness,—he saw, 
without actually realizing the circumstance, that the 
whole vast multitude around him had fallen prostrate in 
an attitude of worship,—and still he stood erect, drinking 
in the warmth of those dark, witching, sleepy orbs that 
flashed at him half-resentfully, half-mockingly, . . . and 
then, . . the beauty-burdened ship began to sway gently, 
and move onwards,—she, that wondrous Siren-Queen was 
vanishing,—vanishing!—she and her kneeling maidens, 
and music, and flowers,—vanishing. . . Where? 

With a start he sprang from his post of observation,—. 
he felt he must go after her at all risks,—he must find 
out her place of abode,—her rank,—her title,—her name ! 
.... All at once he was roughly seized by a dozen or 
more of hands,—loud, angry voices shouted on all 
sides. . “A traitor! . . a traitor!” . . . “ An infidel I n 
“ A spy!” “A malcontent! ” 

“ Into the rivei with him! ” 

“ lie refuses worship! ” “ He denies the gods ! ” 

“ Bear him to the Tribunal! ” . . And in a trice of 
time, he was completely surrounded and hemmed in by 
an exasperated, gesticulating crowd, whose ominous looks 
and indignant mutterings V'ere plainly significant of 
prompt hostility. With a few agile movements he suc¬ 
ceeded in wrenching himself free from the grasp of his 
assailants, and standing among them like a stag at bay 
he cried: 

“ What have I done ? How have X offended ? Speak ? 


ABl/Ax'H. 


101 


Or is it the fashion of Al-Kyris to condemn a man un¬ 
heard ? ” 

No one answered this appeal,—the very directness of it 
seemed to increase the irritation of the mob, that pressing 
closer and closer, began to jostle and hustle him in a 
threatening manner that boded ill for his safety,—he was 
again taken prisoner, and struggling in the grasp of his 
captors, he was preparing to fight for his life as best he 
could, against the general fury, when the sound of 
musical strings, swept carelessly upwards in the ascend¬ 
ing scale, struck sweetly through the clamor. A youth, 
arrayed in crimson, and carrying a small golden harp, 
inarched sedately between the serried ranks that parted 
-Jght and left at his approach,—thus clearing the way for 
another personage who followed him,—a graceful, Adonis¬ 
like personage in glistening white attire, who wore a 
myrtle-wreath on his dark, abundant locks, and whom 
the populace—forgetting for a moment the cause of their 
recent disturbance—greeted with a ringing and ecstatic 
shout of “ Hail ! Sah-luma ! ” 

Again and again this cry was uplifted, till far away on 
the extreme outskirts of the throng the joyous echo of it 
was repeated faintly yet distinctly , . . “ Hail ! All 
hail, Sah-luma ! ” 


CHAPTER XII. 

SAH-LUMA. 

The new-comer thus enthusiastically welcomed bowed 
right and left, with a condescending air, in response to the 
general acclamation, and advancing to the spot where 
Theos stood, an enforced prisoner in the close grip of 
three or four able-bodied citizens, he said : 

“ What turbulence is here ? By my faith! . . when I 
heard the noise of quarrelsome contention jarring the 
sweetness of this nectarous noon, methought I was no 
longer in Al-Kyris, but rather in some western city of 
barbarians where music is but an unvalued name! ” 

And he smiled—a dazzling, child-like smile, half petu¬ 
lant, half-pleased— a smile of supreme self-consciousness 
as of one who knew his own resistless power to charm 
away all discord. 


102 


ARDATH. 


Several voices answered him in clamorous unison: 

“ A traitor, Sah-luma! ” “ A profane rebel! ” . . “ An 
unbeliever!”...“ A most insolent knave ! ”—“ He re¬ 
fused homage to the High Priestess!”...“ A renegade 
from the faith! ” 

“ Now, by the Sacred Veil! ” ciied Sah-lftma impatiently 
—“ Think ye I can distinguish your jargon, when like 
ignorant boors ye talk all at once, tearing my ears to shreds 
with such unmelodious tongue-clatter! Whom have ye 
seized thus roughly ? . . . Let him stand forth! ” 

At this command, the men who held Theos relaxed their 
grasp, and he, breathless and burning with indignation at 
the treatment he had received, shook himself quickly free 
of all restraint, and sprang forward, confronting his res¬ 
cuer. There was a brief pause, during which the two 
surveyed each other with looks of mutual amazement. 
What mysterious indication of affinity did they read in 
one another’s faces ? . . . Why did they stand motionless, 
spell-bound and dumb for a while, eying lialf-admiringly, 
half-enviously, each other’s personal appearance and 
bearing? . . . 

Undoubtedly a curious, far-off resemblance existed be¬ 
tween them,—yet it was a resemblance that had nothing 
whatever to do with the actual figure, mien, or counte¬ 
nance. It was that peculiar and often undefinable simi¬ 
larity of expression, which when noticed between two 
brothers who are otherwise totally unlike, instantly pro¬ 
claims their relationship. 

Theos realized his own superior height and superior 
muscular development,—but what were these physical 
advantages compared to the classic perfection of Sah- 
Itima’s beauty ?—beauty combining the delicate with the 
vigorous, such as is shadowed forth in the artist-concep¬ 
tions of the god Apollo. His features, faultlessly regular, 
were redeemed from all effeminacy by the ennobling 
impress of high thought and inward inspiration,—his eyes 
were dark, with a brillant under-reflection of steel-gray 
in them, that at times flashed out like the soft glitter of 
summer-lightning in the dense purple of an August 
heaven,—his olive-tin ted complexion was flushed warmly 
with the glow of health,—and he had broad, bold, 
intellectual brows over which the rich hair clustered in 
luxuriant waves,—hair that was almost black, with \ ere 
and there a curious fleck of reddish gold brightening its 


ARDATH. 


103 


curling masses, as though a stray sunbeam or two had 
been caught and entangled therein. He was arrayed in a 
costume of the finest silk,—his armlets, belt, and dagger- 
sheath were all of jewels,—and the general brilliancy of 
his attire was furthermore increased by a finely worked 
flexible collar of gold, set with diamonds. The first ex¬ 
change of wondering glances over, he viewed Theos with^ 
a critical, half supercilious air. 

“ What art thou ? ” he demanded . . . “ What is thy 
calling ? ” 

“ Theos hesitated,—then spoke out boldly and unthink¬ 
ingly— 

“ I am a Poet! ” he said. 

A murmur of irrepressible laughter and derision ran 
through the listening crowd. Sah-llima’s lip curled 
haughtily— 

“ A Poet! ” and his fingers played idly with the dagger 
at his belt—“ Nay, not so ! There is but one Poet in Al- 
Kyris, and I am he ! ” 

Theos looked at him steadily,—a subtle sympathy 
attracted him toward this charming boaster,—involun¬ 
tarily he smiled, and bent his head courteously. 

“ I do not seek to figure as your rival.. .” he began. 

“ Rival! ” echoed Sah-lllma—“ I have no rivals ! ” 

A burst of applause from those nearest to them in the 
throng declared the popular approval of this assertion, 
and the boy bearing the harp, who had loitered to listen 
to the conversation, swept the strings of his instrument 
with a triumphant force and fervor that showed how 
thoroughly his feelings were in harmony with the expres¬ 
sion of his master’s sentiments. Sah-ltima conquered, 
with an effort, his momentary irritation, and resumed 
coldly: 

“ From whence do you come, fair sir ? We should 
know your name,— poets are not so common! ” This with 
an accent of irony. 

Taken aback by the question, Theos stood irresolute, 
and uncertain what to say. For he was afflicted with a 
strange and terrible malady such as he dimly remembered 
having heard of, but never expected to suffer from,—a 
malady in which his memory had become almost a blank 
as regarded the past events of his life—though every now 
and then shadowy images of by-gone things flitted across 
his brain, like the transient reflections of wind-swept 


: /: * •" audatZu"^ 

clouds on. still, translucent water. Presently in the 
midst ot ms painful indecision, an answer suggested 
itself like a whispered hint from some invisible prompter: 

a Poets like Sah-lftma are no doubt as rare as night¬ 
ingales in snow! ” he said with a soft deference, and an f 
increasing sense of tenderness for his haughty, handsome 
interlocutor—“ As for me,—I am a singer of sad songs 
that are not worth the hearing! My name is Theos,—I 
come from far beyond the seas, and am a stranger in Al- 
Kyris,—therefore if I have erred in aught, I must be 
blamed for ignorance, not malice ! ” 

As he spoke Sah-lhma regarded him intently,—Theos 
3Het his gazed frankly and unflinchingly. Surely there 
was some singular power of attraction between the two ! 

... for as their flashing eyes again dwelt earnestly on one 
another, they both smiled, and Sah-lftma, advancing, 
proffered his hand. Theos at once accepted it, a curious 
sensation of pleasure tingling through his frame, as he 
pressed those slender brown fingers in his own cordial 
clasp. 

“ A stranger in Al-Kyns ?—and from beyond the seas ? 
Then by my life and honor, I insure thy safety and bid 
thee welcome! A singer of sad songs ? . . Sad or merry, 
that thou art a singer at all makes thee the guest of the 
King’s Laureate ! ” A look of conscious vanity illumined 
his face as he thus announced with proud emphasis his 
own title and claim to distinction. “ The brotherhood of 
poets,” he continued laughingly—“ is a mystic and doubt¬ 
ful tie that hath oft been questioned,—but provided they 
do not, like ill-conditioned wolves, fight each other out of 
the arena, there should be joy in the relationship.” Here, 
turning full upon the crowd, he lifted his rich, melodious 
voice to higher and more ringing tones : 

C£ It is like you, O hasty and misjudging Kyrisians, that 
finding a harmless wanderer from far-off lands, present 
at the pageant of the Midsummer Benediction, ye should 
pounce upon him, even as kites on a straying sea-bird, 
and maul him with your ruthless talons! Has he broken 
the law of worship ? Ye have broken the law of hos¬ 
pitality ! Has he failed to kneel to the passing Ship of 
the Sun ? So have ye failed to handle him with due 
courtesy ! What report shall he bear hence of your 
gentleness and culture to those dim and unjoyous shores 
beyond the gray-green wall of ocean-billows, where, the 


ARDATH 


105 


very name of Al-Kyris serves as a symbol for all that is 
great and wise and wondrous in the whole round circle of 
the world ? Moreover ye know full well that foreigners 
and sojourners in the city are exempt from worship,—and 
the King’s command is that all such should be well and 
nobly entertained, to the end that when they depart they 
may carry with them a full store of pleasant memories. 
Hence, scatterbrains, to your homes !—No festival can ye 
enjoy without a gust of contention !—ye are ill-made in¬ 
struments all, whose jarring strings even I, crowned 
Minstrel of the King, can scarce keep one day in happy 
tune ! Look you now ! . . this stranger is my guest!—. 
Is there a man in Al-Kyris who will treat as an enemy 
one whom Sah-lhma calls friend ? ” 

A storm of applause followed this little extempore 
speech,—applause accompanied by an odorous rain of 
flowers. There were many women in the crowd, and 
these had pressed eagerly forward to catch every word 
that dropped from the Poet-Laureate’s mellifluous lips,— 
now, moved by one common impulse, they hastily snatched 
off their posies and garlands, and flung them in lavish 
abundance at his feet. Some of the blossoms chancing to 
fall on Theos and cling to his garments, he quickly shook 
them off, and gathering them together, presented them to 
the personage for whom they were intended. He, how¬ 
ever, gayly rejected them, moving his small sandalled 
foot playfully among the thick wealth of red and white 
roses that lay waiting to be crushed beneath his tread. 

* “ Keep thy share! ” he said, with an amused flash of his 

glorious eyes. “ Such offerings are my daily lot! .... I 
can spare thee one handful from the overflowing harvest 
of my song! ” 

It was impossible to be offended with such charming 
self-complacency,—the naive conceit of the man was as 
harmless as the delight of a fair girl who has made her 
first conquest, and Theos smiling, kept the flowers. By 
this time the surrounding throng had broken up into little 
knots and groups,—all ill-humor on the part of the popu¬ 
lace had completely vanished,—and large numbers were 
now leaving the embankment and dispersing in different 
directions to their several homes. All those who had 
been within hearing distance of Sah-lhma’s voice appeared 
highly elated, as though they had enjoyed some special 
privilege and pleasure, , . . to be reproved by the Laureate 



100 


ARDATH. 


was evidently considered better than being praised by any 
one else. Many persons pressed up to Theos, and shaking 
hands with him, offered their eager excuses and apologies 
for the misunderstanding that had lately taken place, ex¬ 
plaining with much animation both of look and gesture, 
that the fact of his wearing the same style of dress as them¬ 
selves had induced them to take it for granted that he 
must be one of their fellow-citizens, and therefore subject 
to the laws of the realm. Theos was just beginning to 
feel somewhat embarrassed by the excessive politeness 
and cordiality, of his recent antagonists, when Sah-lhma, 
again interposing, cut all explanations short. 

“ Come, come ! cease this useless prating! ” he said im¬ 
peratively yet good-naturedly—“ In everything ye showed 
your dullard ignorance and lack of discernment. For, 
concerning the matter of attire, are not the fashions of 
Al-Kyris copied more or less badly in every quarter of 
the habitable globe ?—even as our language and literature 
form the chief study and delight of all scholars and edu¬ 
cated gentlemen ? A truce to your discussions !—Let us 
get hence and home; ” here he turned to Theos with a 
graceful salutation—“ You, my good friend, will doubtless 
be glad to rest and recover from my countrymen’s ungentle 
treatment of your person.” 

Thus saying, he made a slight commanding sign,—the 
clustering people drew back on either side,—and he, tak¬ 
ing Theos by the arm, passed through their ranks, talking, 
laughing, and nodding graciously here and there as he 
went, with the half-kindly, half-indifferent ease of an 
affable monarch who occasionally bows to some of his 
poorest subjects. As he trod over the flowers that lay 
heaped about his path, several girls rushed impetuously 
forward, struggling with each other for possession of 
those particularly favored blossoms that had received the 
pressure of his foot, and kissing them, they tied them in 
little knots, and pinned them proudly on the bosoms of 
their white gowns. 

One or two, more daring, stretched out their hands to 
touch the golden frame of the harp as it was carried past 
them by the youth in crimson,—a pretty fellow enough, 
who looked extremely haughty, and almost indignant at 
this effrontery on the part of the fair poet-worshippers, but 
he made no remonstrance, and merely held his head a 
little higher and walked with a more consequential air. 


ARJDATH. 


107 


as he followed his master at a respectful distance. An¬ 
other long ecstatic shout of “ Hail Sah-liuna! ” arose on 
nil sides, rippling away,—away,—down, as it seemed, to 
the very furthest edge of echoing resonance,—and then 
the remainder of the crowd quickly scattered right and 
left, leaving the spacious embankment almost deserted, 
save for the presence of several copper-colored, blue- 
shir ted individuals who were commencing the work of 
taking down and rolling up the silken awnings, accom¬ 
panying their labors by a sort of monotonous chant that, 
mingling with the slow, gliding plash of the river, sounded 
as weird and mournful as the sough of the wind through 
leafless trees. 

Meanwhile Theos, in the company of his new friend, 
began to express his thanks for the timely rescue he had 
received,—but Sah-lhma waived all such acknowledgments 
aside. 

“ Hay, I have only served thee as a crowned Laureate 
should ever serve a lesser minstrel,”—he said, with that 
indescribably delicious air of self-flattery which was so 
whimsical, and yet so winning,—“ And I tell thee in all 
good faith that, for a newly arrived visitor in Al-Kyris, 
thy first venture was a reckless one! To omit to kneel 
in the presence of the High Priestess during her Benedic¬ 
tion, was a violation of our customs and ceremonies dan¬ 
gerous to life and limb! A religiously excited mob is 
merciless,—and if I had not chanced upon the scene of 
action ,.. ” 

“ I should have been no longer the man I am! ” smiled 
Theos, looking down on his companion’s light, lithe, elegant 
form as it moved gracefully by his side—“But that I failed 
in homage to the High Priestess was a most unintentional 
lack of wit on my part,—for if that was the High Priest¬ 
ess,—that dazzling wonder of beauty who lately passed 
: in a glittering ship, on her triumphant way down the river, 
like a priceless pearl in a cup of gold . . . 

“ Aye, aye! ” and Sah-luma’s dark brows contracted in 
a slight frown—“ Hot so many fine words, I pray thee! 
Thou couldst not well mistake her,—there is only one 
Lysia! 55 

i6 Jfy#ia / ” murmured Theos dreamily, and the musical 
name slid off his lips with a soft, sibilant sound,—■“ Lysia! 
And I forgot to kneel to that enchanting, that adorable 
being ! Oh Unwise, benighted fool 1—where were my 



108 


ARDATB. 


thoughts ? Next time I see her I will atone ! * —no mat¬ 
ter what creed she represents,—I will kiss the dust at her 
feet, and so make reparation for my sin! ” 

Sah-luma glanced at him with a somewhat dubious 
expression. 

“What!—art thou already persuaded?” he queried 
lightly, “and wilt thou also be one of us ? Well, thou 
wilt need to kiss the dust in very truth, if thou servest 
Lysia, . . no half-measures will suit where she, the Un¬ 
touched and Immaculate, is concerned,”—and here there 
was a faint inflection of mingled mockery and sadness in 
his tone—“ To love her is, for many men, an absolute 
necessity,—but the Virgin Priestess of the Sun and the 
Serpent receives love, as statues may receive it,—moving 
all others to frenzy, she is herself unmoved! ” 

Tlieos listened, scarcly hearing. He was studying every 
line in Sah-luma’s face and figure with fixed and wistful 
attention. Almost unconsciously he pressed the arm he 
held, and Sah-luma looked up at him with a half-smile. 

“ I fancy we shall like each other! ” he said—“ Thou 
art a western singing bird-of-passage, and I a nested 
nightingale amid the roses of the East,—our ways of 
making melody are different,—we shall not quarrel! ” 
“Quarrel!” echoed Theos amazedly—“Nay! ... I 
might quarrel with my nearest and dearest, but never 
with thee, Sah-luma ! For I know thee for a very prince 
of poets! . . and would as soon profane the sanctity of 
the Muse herself, as violate thy proffered friendship! ” 

“ Why, so ! ” returned Sah-luma, his brilliant eyes 
flashing with undisguised pleasure,—“ An’ thou thinkest 
thus of me we shall be firm and fast companions! Thou 
hast spoken well and not without good instruction—I per¬ 
ceive my fame hath reached thee in thine own ocean- 
girdled lands, where music is as rare as sunshine. Right 
glad am I that chance has thrown us together, for now 
thou wilt be better able to judge of my unrivalled master- 
skill in sweet word-weaving! Thou must abide with me 
for all the days of thy sojourn here. . . . Art willing ? ” 

“ Willing? . . . Aye ! more than willing ! ” exclaimed 
Theos enthusiastically—“ But,—if I burden hospital¬ 
ity . ” 

“ Burden . and Sah-luma laughed—“ Talk not of bur¬ 
dens to nae 1—-I, who have feasted kings, and made light 
Of their entertaining; Here,” he added as he led the way 


ABLATE. 


109 

through a broad alley, lined with magnificent "palms—. 
“ here is the entrance to my poor dwelling! ’’ and a 
sparkling, mischievous smile brightened his features.— 
“ There is room enough in it, methinks to hold the<j- even 
if thou hadst brought a retinue of slaves ! ” 

He pointed before him as he spoke, and Theos stood for 
a moment stock-still and overcome with astonishment, at 
the size and splendor of the palace whose gates they were 
just approaching. It was a dome-shaped building of the 
purest white marble, surrounded on all sides by long, 
fluted colonnades, and fronted by spacious court paved 
with mosaics, where eight flower-bordered fountains 
dashed up to the hot, blue sky, incessant showers of re¬ 
freshing spray. 

Into this court and across it, Sah-luma led his wonder¬ 
ing guest, . . ascending a wide flight of steps, they 
entered a vast open hall, where the light poured in through 
rose-colored and pale blue glass, that gave a strange yet 
lovely effect of mingled sunset and moonlight to the scene. 
Here—reclining about on cushions of silk and velvet— 
were several beautiful girls in various attitudes of in¬ 
dolence and ease,—one laughing, black-haired houri was 
amusing herself with a tame bird which flew to and from 
her uplifted finger,—another in a half-sitting posture, 
played cup-and-ball with much active and graceful dex¬ 
terity,—some w r ere working at gold and silver embroid¬ 
ery,—others, clustered in a semicircle round a large osier 
basket filled with myrtle, were busy weaving garlands of 
the fragrant leaves,—and one maiden, seemingly younger 
than the rest, and of lighter and more delicate complexion, 
leaned somewhat pensively against an ebony-framed harp, 
as though she were considering what sad or suggestive 
chords she should next awaken from its responsive strings. 
As Sah-luma and Theos appeared, these nymphs all rose 
from their different occupations and amusements, and 
stood with bent heads and folded hands in statuesque 
silence and humility. 

“ These are my human rosebuds ! ” said Sah-luma softly 
and gayly, as holding the dazzled Theos by the arm he es¬ 
corted him past these radiant and exquisite forms—“ They 
bloom, and fade, and die, like the flowers thrown by the 
populace,—proud and happy to feel that their perishable 
loveliness has, even for a brief while, been made more 
lasting by contact with my deathless poet-fame! Ah. 


110 


ARDATH. 


Niphrata! ” and he paused at the side of the girl standing 
by the harp—“ Hast thou sung many of my songs to-day ? 
. . or is thy voice too weak for such impassioned ca¬ 

dence? Thou art pale, . . I miss thy soft blush and 
dimpling smile,—what ails thee, my honey-throated 
oriole ? ” 

“ Nothing, my lord ”—answered Niphrata in a low tone, 
raising a pair of lovely, dusky, violet eyes, fringed with 
long black lashes,—“Nothing,—save that my heart is al¬ 
ways sad in thine absence ! ” 

Sah-luma smiled, well pleased. 

“ Let it be sad no longer then! ” he said, caressing her 
cheek with his hand,—and Theos saw a wave of rich color 
mounting swiftly to her fair brows at his touch, as though 
she were a white poppy warming to mimson ir the ar¬ 
dent heat of the sun—“ I love to see thee mern",—mirth 
suits a young and beauteous face like thine! Look you, 
Sweet!—I bring with me here a stranger from far-off 
lands,—one to whom Sah-luma’s name is as a star in the 
desert!—I must needs have thy voice in all its full lus¬ 
ciousness of tune to warble for his pleasure those heart-en¬ 
tangling ditties of mine which thou hast learned to render 
with such matchless tenderness! . . Thanks, Gisenya,” 
. . . this as another maiden advanced, and, gently remov¬ 
ing the myrtle-wreath he wore, placed one just freshly 
woven on his clustering curls, . . then, turning to Theos, 
he inquired—“ Wilt thou also wear a minstrel-garland, my 
friend ? Niphrata or Gisenya will crown thee ! ” 

“ I am not worthy ”—answered Theos, bending his head 
in low salutation to the two lovely girls, who stood eying 
him with a certain wistful wonder—“ One spray from 
Sah-luma’s discarded wreath will best suffice me! ” 

Sah-luma broke into a laugh of absolute delight. 

“ I swear thou speakest well and like a true man ! ” he 
said joyously. “Unfamous as thou art, thou deservest 
honor for the frank confession of thy lack of merit! Be¬ 
lieve me, there are some boastful rhymers in Al-Kyris 
who would benefit much by a share of thy becoming mod¬ 
esty 1 Give him his wish, Gisenya—” and Gisenya, obedi¬ 
ently detaching a sprig of myrtle from the wreath Sah- 
luma had worn all day, handed it to Theos with a grace¬ 
ful obeisance—“ For who knows but the leaves may con- 
telin a certain witchery we wot not of, that shall endow 
turn with a touch of the divine inspiration \ ” 


ABBA 777 . 


Ill 


At that moment, a curious figure came shuffling across 
the splendid hall,—that of a little old man somewhat 
shabbily attired, upon whose wrinkled countenance there 
seemed to be a fixed, malign smile, like the smile of a 
mocking Greek mask. He had small, bright, beady black 
eyes placed very near the bridge of his large hooked nose, 
—his thin, wispy gray locks streamed scantily over his 
bent shoulders, and he carried a tall staff to support his 
awkward steps,—a staff with which he made a most dis¬ 
agreeable tapping noise on the marble pavement as he 
came along. 

“ Ah, Sir Gad-about! ” he exclaimed in a harsh, squeaky 
voice as he perceived Sah-lftma—“ Back again from your 
self-advertising in the city! Is there any poor soul left 
in Al-Kyris whose ears have not been deafened by the 
parrot-cry of the name of Sah-lhma ?—If there is,—at him, 
at him, my dainty warbler of tiresome trills !—at him, and 
storm his senses with a rliodomontade of rhymes without 
reason!—at him, Immortal of the Immortals !—Bard of 
Bards !—stuff him with quatrains and sextains!—beat 
him with blank verse, blank of all meaning!—lash him 
with ballad and sonnet-scourges, till the tortured wretch, 
howling for mercy, shall swear that no poet save Sah- 
luma, ever lived before, or will ever live again, on the face 
of the shuddering and astonished earth ! ” 

And breathless with this extraordinary outburst, he 
struck his staff loudly on the floor, and straightway fell 
into such a violent fit of coughing that his whole lean 
body shook with the paroxysm. 

Sah-lftma laughed heartily,—laughter in which he was 
joined by all the assembled maidens, including the gentle, 
pensive-eyed Niphrata. Standing erect in his glistening 
princely attire, with one hand resting familiarly on 
Theos’s arm, and the sparkle of mirth lighting up his 
handsome features, he formed the greatest contrast imag¬ 
inable to the little shrunken old personage, who, clinging 
convulsively to his staff, was entirely absorbed in his 
efforts to control and overcome his sudden and unpleasant 
attack of threatened suffocation. 

« Theos, my friend,”—he said, still laughing—“ Thou 
must know the admirable Zabastes,—a man of vast im¬ 
portance in his own opinion! Have done with thy wheez¬ 
ing,”—he continued, vehemently thumping the struggling 
old gentleman on the back—“ Here is another one of the 


ARDATH. 


112 

minstrel craft thou hatest,—hast aught of bitterness in 
thy barbed tongue wherewith to welcome him as guest to 
mine abode?” 

Thus adjured, the old man peered up at Tneos inquis¬ 
itively, wiping away the tears that coughing had brought r 
into his eyes, and after a minute or two began also to ! 
laugh in a smothered, chuckling way,—a laugh that 
resembled the croaking of frogs in a marshy pool. 

“Another one of the minstrel-craft,” he echoed deri¬ 
sively —“ Aye, aye! . . . Like meets like, and fools con¬ 
sorts with fool. . The guest of Sah-lftma, . . Hearken, 
young man,—” and he drew closer, the malign grin 
widening on his furrowed face,—“ Thou shalt learn 
enough trash here to stock thee with idiot-songs for a 
century. Thou shalt gather up such fragments of stupid¬ 
ity, as shall provide thee with food for all the puling love¬ 
sick girls of a nation! Dost thou write follies also?., 
thou shalt not write them here, thou shalt not even think 
them!—for here Sah-luma,—the great, the unrivalled Sah- 
luma,—is sole Lord of the land of Poesy. Poesy,—by all 
the gods !—I would the accursed art had never been in¬ 
vented ... so might the world have been spared many long- 
drawn nothings, enwoofed in obscure and distracting 
phraseology ! . . . Thou a would-be Poet ?—go to!—make 
brick, mend sandals, dig entrenchments, fight for thy 
country,— and leave the idle stringing of words, and the 
tinkling of rhyme, to children like Sah-luma, who play 
with life instead of living it.” 

And with this, he hobbled off uneasily, grunting and 
grumbling as he went, and waving his staff magisterially 
right and left to warn the smiling maidens out of his way, r 
—and once more Sah-luma’s laughter, clear and joyous, 
pealed through the vaulted vestibule. 

“ Poor Zab&stes ! ” he said in a tone of good-humored 
tolerance—“ He has the most caustic wit of any man in 
Al-Kyris ! He is a positive marvel of perverseness and 
ill-humor, well worth the four hundred golden pieces I pay 
him yearly for his task of being my scribe and critic. 
Like all of us he must live, eat and wear decent clothing, 

•—and that his only literary skill lies in the abuse of 
better men than himself is his misfortune, rather than 
his fault. Yes! . . he is my paid Critic, paid to rail 
against me on all occasions public or private, for the mer¬ 
riment of those who care to listen to the mutterings of 


ARDATH. 


113 


His discontent,—and, by the Sacred Veil! . . I cannot 
choose but laugh myself whenever I think of him. He 
deems his words carry weight with the people,—alas, 
poor soul! his scorn but adds to my glory,—his derision 
to my fame! Nay, of a truth I need him,—even as the 
King needs the court fool,—to make mirth for me in 
vacant moments,—for there is something grotesque in the 
contemplation of his cankered clownishness, that sees 
nought in life but the eating, the sleeping, the building, 
and the bargaining. Such men as he can never bear to 
know that there are others, gifted by heaven, for whom 
all common things take radiant shape and meaning,—for 
whom the flowers reveal their fragrant secrets,—for 
whom birds not only sing, but speak in most melodious 
utterance—for whose dreaming eyes, the very sunbeams 
spin bright fantasies in mid-air more lasting than the 
kingdoms of the world ! Blind and unhappy Zabastes! 
. . he is ignorant as a stone, and for him the mys¬ 
teries of Nature are forever veiled. The triumphal hero- 
march of the stars,—the brief, bright rhyme of the flashing 
comet,—the canticle of the rose as she bears her crimson 
heart to the smile of the sun,—the chorus of green leaves 
chanting orisons to the wind—the never completed epic 
of heaven’s lofty solitudes where the white moon paces, 
wandering like a maiden in search of love,—all these 
and other unnumbered joys he has lost—joys that 
Sah-luma, child of the high gods and favorite of Destiny 
drinks in with the light and the air.” 

His eyes softened with a dreamy, intense lustre that 
gave them a new and almost pathetic beauty, while 
Theos, listening to each word he uttered, wondered 
whether there were ever any sounds sweeter than the 
rise and fall of his exquisite voice,—a voice as deliciously 
clear and mellow as a golden flute tenderly played. 

“Yes !—though we must laugh at Zabastes we should 
also pity him,”—he resumed in gayer accents—“ His fate 
is not enviable. He is nothing but a Critic—he could not 
well be a lesser man,—one who, unable himself to do any 
great work, takes refuge in finding fault with the works 
of others. And those who abhor true Poesy are in time 
themselves abhorred,—the balance of Justice never errs in 
these things. The Poet wins the whole world’s love, and 
immortal fame,—his adverse Critic, brief contempt, and 
measureless oblivion. Come^’—he added, addressing 
8 


114 


ABB ATIT. 


Theos—“ we will leave these maidens to their duties and 
pastimes,—Niphr&ta! ” here his dazzling smile flashed 
like a beam of sunlight over his face—“ thou wilt bring 
us fruit and wine .yonder,—we shall pass the afternoon 
together within doors. Bid my steward prepare the Rose 
Chamber for my guest, and let Athazdl and Zimra attend 
there to wait upon him.” 

All the maidens saluted, touching their heads with 
their hands in token of obedience, and Sah-luma leading 
the way, courteously beckoned Theos to follow. He did 
so, conscious as he went of two distinct impressions,— 
first, that the mysterious mental agitation he had suf¬ 
fered from when he had found himself so unexpectedly 
in a strange city, was not completely dispelled,—and 
secondly, that he felt as though he must have known 
Sah-luma all his life! His memory still remained a blank 
as regarded his past career,—but this fact had ceased to 
trouble him, and he was perfectly tranquil, and altogether 
satisfied with his present surroundings. In short, to be 
in Al-Kyris, seemed to him quite in keeping with the 
necessary course of events,—while to he the friend and 
companion of Sah-luma was more natural and familiar to 
his mind, than all once natural and familiar things. 


CHAPTER XIII. 
a poet’s palace. 

Gliding along with that graceful, almost phantom-like 
swiftness of movement that was so much a part of his 
manner, Sah-lftma escorted his visitor to the further end 
of the great hall. There,—throwing aside a curtain of 
rich azure silk which partially draped two large folding-, 
doors,—he ushered him into a magnificent apartment 
opening out upon the terrace and garden beyond,—a 
garden filled with such a marvellous profusion of foliage 
and flowers, that looking at it from between the glisten¬ 
ing marble columns surrounding the palace, it seemed as 
though the very sky above rested edge-wise on towering 
pyramids of red and while bloom. Awnings of pale blue 
stretched from the windows across the entire width of 
the spacious outer colonnade, and here two small boys 3 


ARDATB. 


115 


half nude, and black as polished ebony, were huddled 
together on the mosaic pavement, watching the arrogant 
deportment of a superb peacock that strutted majestically 
to and fro with boastfully spreading tail and glittering 
crest as brilliant as the gleam of the hot sun on the silver 
fringe of the azure canopies. 

“ Up, lazy rascals! ” cried Sah-luma imperiously, as 
with the extreme point of his sandaled foot he touched 
the dimpled, shiny back of the nearest boy—“ Up, and 
away! . . Fetch rose-water and sweet perfumes hither! 
By the gods! . ye have let the incense in yonder burner 
smoulder! ”—and he pointed to a massive brazen vessel, 
gorgeously ornamented, from whence rose but the very 
faintest blue whiff of fragrant smoke—“ Off with ye both, 
ye basking blackamoors! bring fresh frankincense,—and 
palm-leaves wherewith to stir this heated air—hence and 
back again like a lightning-flash! . or out of my sight for¬ 
ever ! ” 

While he spoke, the little fellows stood trembling and 
ducking their woolly heads, as though they half expected 
to be seized by their irate master and flung, like black 
balls, out into the wilderness of flowers, but glancing 
timidly up and perceiving that even in the midst of his 
petulance he smiled, they took courage, and as soon as he 
had ceased they darted off with the swiftness of flying 
arrows, each striving to outstrip the other in a race across 
the terrace and garden. Sah-luma laughed as he watched 
them disappear,—and then stepping back into the in¬ 
terior of the apartment he turned to Theos and bade him 
be seated. Theos sank unresistingly into a low, velvet- 
cushioned chair richly carved and inlaid with ivory, and 
stretching his limbs indolently therein, surveyed with 
new and ever-growing admiration the supple, elegant figure 
of his host, who, throwing himself full length on a couch 
covered with leopard-skins, folded his arms behind his 
head, and eyed his guest with a complacent smile of van¬ 
ity and self-approval. 

“ ’Tis not an altogether unfitting retreat for a poet’s 
musings”—he said, assuming an air of indifference, as ho 
glanced round his luxurious, almost royally appointed 
room—“ I have heard of worse!—But truly it needs the 
highest art of all known nations to worthily deck a habi¬ 
tation wherein the divine Muse may daily dwell, . . 
nevertheless, air, light, and flowers are not lacking, and on 


ARDATK. 


116 

these metainks I could subsist, were I deprived of all 
other things !. ” 

Theos sat silent, looking about him wistfully. W as ever 
poet, king, or even emperor, housed more sumptuously 
than this, he thought ? . . as his eyes wandered to the 
domed ceiling, wreathed with carved clusters of grapes 
and pomegranates,—the walls, frescoed with glowing 
scenes of love and song-tournament,—the groups of superb 
statuary that gleamed whitely out of dusky, velvet- 
draped corners,—the quaintly shaped book-cases, over¬ 
flowing with books, and made so as to revolve round and 
round at a touch, or move to and fro on noiseless wheels, 
—the grand busts, both in bronze and marble, that stood 
on tall pedestals or projecting bracket; and,—while he 
dimly noted all these splendid evidences of unlimited 
wealth and luxury,—the porfume and lustre of the place, 
the glitter of gold and azure, silver and scarlet, the ori¬ 
ental languor pervading the very air, and above all the 
rich amber and azure-tinted light that bathed every ob¬ 
ject in a dream-like and fairy radiance, plunged his senses 
into a delicious confusion,—a throbbing fever of delight 
to which he could give no name, but which permeated 
every fibre of his being. 

He felt half blinded with the brilliancy of the scene,— 
the dazzling glow of color,—the sheen of deep and delicate 
hues cunningly intermixed and contrasted,—the gorgeous 
lavishness of waving blossoms that seemed to surge up 
like a sea to the very windows,—and though many 
thoughts flitted hazily through his brain, he could not 
shape them into utterance. He stared vaguely at the 
floor,—it was paved with variegated mosaic and strewn 
with the soft, dark, furry skins of wild animals,—at a 
little distance from where he sat there was a huge bronze 
lectern supported by a sculptured griffin with horns,— 
horns which curving over at the top, turned upward 
again in the form of candelabra,—the harp-bearer had 
brought in the harp, and it now stood in a conspicuous 
position decked with myrtle, some of the garlands woven 
by the maidens being no doubt used for this purpose. 

Yet there was something mirage-like and fantastic in 
the splendor that everywhere surrounded him,—he felt 
as though he were one of the spectators in a vast auditorium 
where the curtain had just risen on the first scene of the 
play. He was dubiously considering in his own perplexed 


ARDATH. 


117 


mind, whether such princely living were the privilege, or 
right, or custom of poets in general, when Sah-lfima spoko 
again, waving his hand toward one of the busts near 
him—a massive, frowning head, magnificently sculptured. 

“ There is the glorious Oruz&l! ” he said—“ The father, 
as we all must own, of the Art of Poesy, and indeed of all 
true literature! Yet there be some who swear he never 
lU r ed at all—aye ! though his poems have come down to 
us,—and many are the arguments I have had with so- 
called wise men like Zabastes, concerning his style and 
method of versification. Everything he has written 
bears the impress of the same master-touch,—neverthe¬ 
less garrulous controversialists hold that his famous work 
the ‘ Rfiva-Kalama ’ descended by oral tradition from 
mouth to mouth till it came to us in its ‘improved’ 
present condition. ‘ Improved ! ’ ” and Sah-lfima laughed 
disdainfully,—“ As if the mumbling of an epic poem 
from grandsire to grandson coul'd possibly improve it! 

. . it would rather be deteriorated, if not altogether 
changed into the merest doggerel! Nay, nay!—the 
* Rfiva-Kalama,’ is the achievement of one great mind,— 
not twenty Oruzels were born in succession to write it,— 
there was, there could be only one, and he, by right 
supreme, is chief of the Bards Immortal! As well might 
fools hereafter wrangle together and say there were many 
Sah-lfimas! . . only I have taken good heed posterity 
shall know there was only one,—unmatched for love- 
impassioned singing throughout the length and breadth 
of the world! ” 

He sprang up from his recumbent posture and attracted 
Theos’s attention to another bust even finer than the last, 
—it was placed on a pedestal wreathed at the summit and 
at the base with laurel. 

“ The divine Hyspiros! ” he exclaimed pointing to it in 
a sort of ecstasy—“ The Master from whom it may be I 
have caught the perfect entrancement of my own verse- 
melody! His fame, as thou knowest, is unrivalled j 
and universal—yet—canst thou believe it! . . there has 
been of late an ass found in Al-Kyris who hath chosen 
him as a subject for his braying—and other asses join 
in the uneuphonius chorus. The marvellous Plays of 
Hyspiros! . . the grandest tragedies, the airiest come¬ 
dies, the tenderest fantasies, ever created by human brain, 
have been called to question by tftwe thistle-eating- 


118 


ABDATH. 


animals!—and one most untractable mule-head hath made 
pretence to discover therein a passage of secret writing 
which shall, so the fool thinks, prove that Hyspiros was 
not the author of his own works, but only a literary cheat, 
and forger of another and lesser man’s inspiration! By 
the gods!—one’s sides would split with laughter at the 
silly brute, were he not altogether too contemptible to 
provoke even derision! Hyspiros a traitor to the art he 
served and glorified? . . Hyspiros a literary juggler and 
trickster ? . . By the Serpent’s Head! they may as well 
seek to prove the fiery Sun in Heaven a common oil-lamp, 
as strive to lessen by one iota the transcendent glory of 
the noblest poet the centuries have ever seen! ” 

Warmed by enthusiasm, with his eyes flashing and the 
impetuous words coursing from his lips, his head thrown 
back, his hand uplifted, Sah-lfima looked magnificent,— 
and Theos, to whose misty brain the names of Oruz&l and 
Hyspiros carried no positively distinct meaning, was 
nevertheless struck by a certain suggestiveness in his 
remarks that seemed to bear on some discussion 
in the literary world that had taken place quite recently. 
He was puzzled and tried to fix the precise point round 
which his thoughts strayed so hesitatingly, but he could 
arrive at no definite conclusion. The brilliant, meteor¬ 
like Sah-lfima meantime flashed hither and thither about 
the room, selecting certain volumes from his loaded book¬ 
stands, and bringing them in a pile, he set them on a 
small table by his visitor’s side. 

“ These are some of the earliest editions of the plays of 
Hyspiros ”—he went on, talking in that rapid, fluent way 
of his that was as musical as a bird’s song—“ They are 
rare and curious. See you!—the names of the scribes 
and the dates of issue are all distinct. Ah!—the treasures 
of poetry enshrined within these pages! . . was ever pa¬ 
pyrus so gemmed with pearls of thought and wisdom ?_ 

If there were a next world, my friend,”—and here he 
placed his hand familarily on his guest’s shoulder, while 
the bright, steel-gray under-gleam sparkled in his splendid 
eyes—“ ’twould be worth dwelling in for the sake of 
Hyspiros,—as grand a god as any of the Thunderers in 
the empyrean P’ 

“Surely there is a pext world’’—murmured Theos, 
scarcely knowing what he said—“A world where thou 


ABB ATS. 


119 


and I, Sali-luma, and all the masters and servants of song 
shall meet and hold high festival! ” 

Sah-luma laughed again, a little sadly this time, and 
shrugged his shoulders. 

“Believe it not!” he said, and there was a touch of 
melancholy in his rich voice—“We are midges in a sun¬ 
beam,—emmets on a sand-hill. . no more! Is there a 
next world, thinkest thou, for the bees who die of surfeit in 
the nilica-cups ?—for the whirling drift of brilliant butter¬ 
flies that sleepily float with the wind unknowing whither, 
till met by the icy blast of the north, they fall like broken 
and colorless leaves in the dust of the high-road? Is 
there a next world for this?”—and he took from a tall 
vase near at hand a delicate flower, lily-shaped and deli¬ 
ciously odorous, . “ The expression of its soul or mind is 
in its fragrance,—even as the expression of ours finds vent 
in thought and aspiration,—have we more right to live 
again than this most innocently fair blossom, unsmirched 
by deeds of evil ? Nay!—I would more easily believe in 
a heaven for birds and flowers, than for women and men! ” 

A shadow of pain darkened his handsome face as he 
spoke, . . and Theos, gazing full at him, became suddenly 
filled with pity and anxiety,—he passionately longed to 
assure him that there was in very truth a future higher 
and happier existence,—he, Theos, would vouch for the 
fact! But how ? . . and why ? . . . What could he say ? .. 
what could he prove ? . . . 

His throat ached,—his eyeballs burned, . he was, as it 
were, forbidden to speak, notwithstanding the yearning 
desire he felt to impart to tfae soul of his new-found friend 
something of that indescribable sense of everlastingness 
which he himself was now conscious of, even as one set 
free of prison is conscious of liberty. Mute, and with a 
feeling as of hot, unshed tears welling up from his very 
heart, he turned over the volumes of Hyspiros almost 
mechanically,—they were formed of sheets of papyrus 
artistically bound in loose leather coverings and tied to¬ 
gether with gold-colored ribbon. 

The Kyrisian language was, as has been before stated, 
perfectly familiar to him, though he could not tell how he 
had acquired the knowledge of it,—and he was able to see 
at a glance that Sah-luma had good cause to be enthusiastic 
in his praise of the author whose genius he so fervently 
admired, There was a ringing richness in the rush of the 


120 


AliDATU. 


verse,—a wealth of simile combined with a simplicity and 
directness of utterance that charmed the ear while in¬ 
fluencing the mind, and he was beginning to read in sotto - 
voce the opening lines of a spirited battle-challenge run¬ 
ning thus: 

“ I tell thee, O thou pride-enthroned King 
That from these peaceful fields, these harvest lands, 

Strange crops shall spring, not sown by thee or thine ! 

Arm’d millions, bristling weapons, helmed men 
Dreadfully plum’d and eager for the fray, 

Steel-crested myrmidons, toss’d spears, wild steeds, 

Uplifted flags and pennons, horrid swords, 

Death-gleaming eyes, stern hands to grasp and tear 
Life from beseeching life, till all the heavens 
Strike havoc to the terror-trembling stars ” . . . . 

when the two small, black pages lately dispatched in such 
haste by Sah-luma returned, each one bearing a huge 
gilded bowel filled with rose-water, together with fine 
cloths, lace-fringed, and soft as satin. 

Kneeling humbly down, one before Tlieos, the other 
before Sah-luma, they lifted these great, shining bowls on 
their heads, and remained motionless. Sah-luma dipped 
his face and hands in the cool, fragrant fluid,—Theos 
followed his example,—and when these light ablutions 
were completed, the pages disappeared, coming back 
almost immediately with baskets of loose rose-leaves, 
white and red, which they scattered profusely about the 
room. A delightful odor subtly sweet, and yet not faint, 
began to freshen the already perfumed air,—and Sah- 
luma, flinging himself again on his couch, motioned Theos 
to take a similar resting-place opposite. 

He at once obeyed, yielding anew to the sense of indolent 
luxury and voluptuous ease his surroundings engendered, 
—and presently the aroma of rising incense mingled itself 
with the scent of the strewn rose-petals,—the pages had 
replenished the incense-burner, and now, these duties done 
so far, they brought each a broad, long-stalked palm-leaf, 
and placing themselves in proper position, began to fan 
the two young men slowly and with measured gentleness, 
standing as mute as little black statues, the only move¬ 
ment about them being the occasional rolling of their 
white eyeballs and the swaying to and fro of their shiny 
arms as they wielded the graceful, bending leaves. 

“ This is the way a poet should ever live! ” murmured 


ATtDATH. 


121 


Theos, glancing up from the soft cushions among which 
he reclined, to Sah-luma, who lay with his eyes half-closed 
and a musing smile on his beautiful mouth—“ Self-cen¬ 
tered in a circle of beauty,—with naught but fair sug¬ 
gestions and sweet thoughts to break the charm of soli¬ 
tude. A kingdom of happy fancies should be his, with 
gates shut fast against unwelcome intruders,—gates that 
should never open save to the conquering touch of 
woman’s kiss! . . for the master-key of love must un¬ 
lock all doors, even the doors of a minstrel’s dreaming! ” 
“Thinkest thou so?” said Sah-luma lazily, turning 
his dark, delicate head slightly round on his glistening, 
pale-rose satin pillow—“Nay, of a truth there are times 
when I could bar out women from my thoughts as mere 
disturbers of the translucent element of poesy in which 
my spirit bathes. There is fatigue in love, . : these 
pretty human butterflies too oft weary the flower whose 
honey they seek to drain. Nevertheless the passion of 
love hath a certain tingling pleasure in it, . . I yield to it 
when it touches me, even as I yield to all other pleasant 
things,—but there are some who unwisely carry desire 
too far, and make of love a misery instead of a pastime. 
Many will die for love,—fools are they all! To die for 
fame, . . for glory, . . that I can understand, . . but for 
love! . .” he laughed, and taking up a crushed rose-petal 
he flipped it into the air with his finger and thumb—“ I 
would as soon die for sake of that perished leaf as for sake 
of a woman’s transient beauty! ” 

As he uttered these words Niphrata entered, carrying a 
golden salver on which were placed a tall flagon, two 
goblets, and a basket of fruit. She approached Theos 
first, and he, raising himself on his elbow, surveyed her 
with fresh admiration and interest while he poured out 
the wine from the flagon into one of those glistening cups, 
which he noticed were rough with the quantity of small 
gems used in their outer ornamentation. 

He was struck by her fair and melancholy style of 
loveliness, and as she stood before him with lowered eyes, 
the color alternately flushing and paling on her cheeks, 
and her bosom heaving restlessly beneath the loosely 
drawn folds of her prim rose-liued gown, an inexplicable 
emotion of pity smote him, as if he had suddenly been 
made aware of some inward sorrow of hers which he was 
utterly powerless to console. He would have spoken, but 


122 


ARB A 777. 


"just then could find nothing appropriate to say, . . and 
when he had selected a fine peach from the heaped-up 
dainties offered for his choice, he still watched her as she 
turned to Sah-luma, who smiled, and bade her set down 
her salver on a low, bronze stand at his side. She did so, 
and then with the warm blood burning in her cheeks, 
stood waiting and silent. Sah-luma, with a lithe move¬ 
ment of his supple form, lifted himself into a half-sitting 
posture, and throwing one arm round her waist, drew her 
close to his breast and kissed her. 

“ My fairest moonbeam ! ” he said gayly—“ Thou art as 
noiseless and placid as thy yet unembodied sisters that 
stream through heaven and dance on the river when the 
world is sleeping! Myrtle ! . and he detached a spray 
from the bosom of her dress—“ What hast thou to do 
with the poet’s garland ? By my faith, thou art like 
Theos yonder, and hast chosen to wear a sprig of my 
faded crown for thine adornment—is’t not so ? ” A hot 
and painful blush crimsoned Niphrata’s face,—a softness 
as of suppressed tears glistened in her eyes,—she made 
no answer, but looked beseechingly at the little twig 
Sah-luma held. “ Silly child! ” he went on laughingly, 
replacing it himself against her bosom, where the breath 
seemed to struggle with such panting haste and fear— 
“ Thou art welcome to the dead leaves sanctified by song, 
if thou thinkest them of value, but I would rather see 
the rosebud of love nestled in that pretty white breast of 
thine, than the cast-off ornaments of fame ! ” 

And filling himself a cup of wine he raised it aloft, 
looking at Theos smilingly as he did so. 

“To your health, my noble friend! ” he ciied, “ and to 
the joys of the passing hour! ” 

“ A wise toast! ” answered Theos, placing his lips to 
his own goblet’s rim,—“ For the past is past,—’twill never 
return, —the future we know not,—and only the present 
can be called our own! To the health of the divine Sah- 
luma, whose fame is my glory !—whose friendship is dear 
to me as life! ” 

And with this, he drained off the wine to the last drop. 
Scarcely had he done so, when the most curious sensation 
overcame him—a sensation of bewildering ecstasy as 
though he had drunk of some ambrosian nectar or magic 
drug which had suddenly wound up his nerves to an acute 
tension of indescribable delight. The blood coursed more 


Ann ath. 


m 


swiftly through his veins,—he felt his face flush with tha 
impulsive heat and ardor of the moment,—he laughed as 
he set the cup down empty, and throwing himself back 
on his luxurious couch, his eyes flashed on Sah-luma’s 
with a bright, comprehensive glance of complete confi¬ 
dence and affection. It was strange to note how quickly 
Sah-luma returned that glance,—how thoroughly, in so 
short a space of time, their friendship had cemented itself 
into a more than fraternal bond of union! Niphrata, 
meanwhile, stood a little aside, her wistful looks wander¬ 
ing from one to the other as though in something of doubt 
or wonder. Presently she spoke, inclining her fair head 
toward Sah-luma. 

“My lord goes to the Palace to-night to make his 
valued voice heard in the presence of the King ? ” she in¬ 
quired timidly. 

“ Even so, Niphrata! ” responded the Laureate, passing 
his hand carelessly through his clustering curls—“ I have 
been summoned thither by the Royal command. But 
what of that, little one ? Thou knowest ’tis a common 
occurrence,—and that the Court is bereft of all pleasure 
and sweetness when Sah-luma is silent.” 

“ My lord’s guest goes with him ? ” pursued Niphrata 
gently. 

“ Aye, most assuredly ?” and Sah-luma smiled at Theos 
as he spoke—“ Thou wilt accompany me to the King, 
my friend ? ” he went on—“ He will give thee a welcome 
for my sake, and though of a truth His Majesty is most 
potently ignorant of all things save the arts of love and 
and warfare, nevertheless he is man as well as monarch, 
and thou wilt find him noble in his greeting and gen¬ 
erous of hopitality.” 

“ I will go with thee, Sah-luma, anywhere! ” replied 
Theos quickly—“ For in following such a guide, I follow 
my own most perfect pleasure.” 

Nipbrata looked at him meditatively, with a melancholy 
expression in her lovely eyes. 

“ My lord Sah-luma’s presence indeed brings joy ! ” 
she said softly and tremulously—“ But the joy is too 
sweet and brief—for when he departs, none can fill tha 
place he leaves vacant! ” 

She paused,—Sah-luma’s gaze rested on her intently, 
a half-amused, half-tender light leaping from under the 
drooping shade of his long, silky black lashes,—she caught 


124 


ARDATH. 


the look, and a little shiver ran through her delicate frame* 
—she pressed one hand on her heart, and resumed in 
steadier and more even tones,—“ My lord has perhaps not 
heard of the disturbances of the early morning in the 
city ? ”—she asked—“ The riotous crowd in the market¬ 
place—the ravings of the Prophet Ivhosrul ? . . the 
sudden arrest and imprisonment of many,—and the con¬ 
sequent wrath of the King ? ” 

“ No, by my faith ! ” returned Sah-luma, yawning 
slightly and settling his head more comfortably on his 
pillows—“ Nor do I care to heed the turbulence of a mob 
that cannot guide itself and yet resists all guidance. 
Arrests? . . imprisonments? . . they are common,—but 
w T hy in the name of the Sacred Veil do they not arrest and 
imprison the actual disturbers of the peace,—the Mystics 
and Philosophers whose street orations filter through the 
mind of the disaffected, rousing them to foolish frenzy 
and disordered action ?—Why, above all men, do they not 
seize Khosrul?—a veritable madman, for all his many 
years and seeming wisdom! Hath he not denounced the 
faith of Nagaya and foretold the destruction of the city 
times out of number? . . and are we not all weary to 
death of his bombastic mouthing ? If the King deemed 
a poet’s counsel worth the taking, he would long ago 
have shut this bearded ranter within the four walls of a 
dungeon, where only rats and spiders would attend his 
lectures on approaching Doom!” 

“ Nay, but my lord—” Niphrata ventured to say timidly 
—“ The King dare not lay hands on Khosrul . . .” 

“ Dare not! ” laughed Sah-luma lazily stretching out 
his hand and helping himself to a luscious nectarine from 
the basket at his side—“ Sweet Niphrata! . . settest thou 
a limit to the power of the King? As well draw a boun¬ 
dary-line for the imagination of the poet! Khosrul may 
be loved and feared by a certain number of superstitious 
malcontents who look upon a madman as a sort of sacred 
wild animal,—but the actual population of Al-Kyris,— 
the people who are the blood, bone, and sinew of the city, 
—these are not in favor of change either in religion, laws, 
manners, or customs. But Khosrul is old,—and that the 
King humors his vagaries is simply out of pity for his age 
and infirmity, Niphrata,—not because of fear! Our 
Monarch knows no fear.” 

“ Khosrul prophesies terrible things! ” . . . murmured 


ARDATR. 


125 


the girl hesitatingly—“ I have often thought .... if they 
should come true. . . .” 

“Thou timid dove !” and Sah-luma, rising from his 
couch, kissed her neck lightly, thus causing a delicate 
flush of crimson to ripple through the whiteness of her 
skin—“ Think no more of such folly—thou wilt anger me. 
That a doting graybeard like Khosrul should trouble the 
peace of Al-Kyris the Magnificent, . . by the gods I—the 
whole thing is absurd ! Let me hear no more of mobs or 
riots, or road-rhetoric,—my soul abhors even the sug¬ 
gestion of discord. Tranquillity! . . Divinest calm, dis¬ 
turbed only by the flutterings of winged thoughts hover¬ 
ing over the cloudless heaven of fancy ! . . this, this alone 
is the sum and centre of my desires,—and to-day I find 
that even thou, Mphrata—” here his voice took upon it¬ 
self an injured tone,—“ thou, who art usually so gentle, 
hast somewhat troubled the placidity of my mind by thy 
foolish talk concerning common and unpleasant circum¬ 
stances, . . .” He stopped short and a line of vexation 
and annoyance made its appearance between his broad, 
beautiful brows, while Mphr&ta seeing this expression of 
almost baby-petulance in the face she adored threw her¬ 
self suddenly at his feet, and raising her lovely eyes 
swimming in tears, she exclaimed: 

“My lord! Sah-luma! Singing-angel of Mphrata’s 
soul!—Forgive me! It is true, . . thou shouldst never 
hear of strife or contention among the coarser tribe of 
men,—and I, . I, poor Mphrata, would give my life to 
shield thee from the faintest shadow of annoy ! I would 
have thy path ail woven sunbeams,—thou shouldst live 
like a fairy monarch embowered ’mid roses, sheltered from 
rough winds, and folded in loving arms, fairer maybe, but 
not more fond than mine!”.... Her voice broke,— 
stooping, she kissed the silver fastening of his sandal, and 
springing up, rushed from the room before a word could 
be uttered to bid her stay. 

Sah-luma looked after her with a pretty, half-pleased 
perplexity. 

“ She is often thus! ” he said in a tone of playful resigna¬ 
tion,—“As I told thee, Theos,—women are butterflies, 
hovering hither and thither on uneasy pinions, uncertain 
of their own desires. Mphrata is a woman-riddle,—some¬ 
times she angers me,—sometimes she soothes, . . now she 
prattles of things that concern me not,—and, anon eog% 


126 ' 


ARBATH. 


verses with such high and lofty earnestness of speech, that 
I listen amazed, and wonder where she hath gathered up 
her store of seeming wisdom.” 

“ Love teaches her all she knows! ” interrupted Theos 
quickly and with a meaning glance. 

Sah-luma laughed languidly, a faint color warming the 
clear olive pallor of his complexion. 

“ Aye,—poor tender little soul, she loves me,” . . he said 
carelessly—“ That is no secret! But then all women love 
me,—I am more like to die of a surfeit of love than of any¬ 
thing else l ” He moved towards the open window 
“ Come!—” he added—“Itis the hour of sunset,—there is 
a green hillock in my garden yonder from whence we can 
behold the pomp and panoply of the golden god’s depart¬ 
ure. ’Tis a sight I never miss,—I would have thee share 
its glory with me.” 

“ But art thou then indifferent to woman’s tenderness ?” 
asked Theos half banteringly, as he took his arm—“ Dost 
thou love no one ? ” 

“ My friend ”—replied Sah-luma seriously—“ I love My¬ 
self ! I see naught that contents me more than my own 
Personality,—and with all my heart I admire the miracle 
and beauty of my own existence! There is nothing even 
in the completest fairness of womanhood that satisfies me 
so much as the contemplation of my own genius,—realiz¬ 
ing as I do its wondrous power and perfect charm ! The 
life of a poet such as I am is a perpetual marvel!—the 
whole Universe ministers to my needs,—Humanity be¬ 
comes the merest bound slave to the caprice of my imperial 
imagination,—with a thought I scale the stars,—with a 
wish I float in highest ether among Spheres undiscovered 
yet familiar to my fancy—I converse with the spirits of 
flowers and fountains,—and the love of women is a mere 
drop in the deep ocean of my unfathomed delight! Yes, 
—I adore my own Identity! . . and of a truth Self-worship 
is the only Creed the world has ever followed faithfully to 
the end! ” 

He glanced up with a bright, assured smile,—Theos 
met his gaze wonderingly, doubtfully,—but made no re¬ 
ply,—and together they paced slowly across the marble 
terrace, and out into the glorious garden, rich with the 
riotous roses that clambered and clustered everywhere, 
their hues deepening to flame-like vividness in the burn- 
hag radiance of the sinking sun. 


AUDATH. 


127 


CHAPTER XIY. 

THE SUMMONS OF THE SIGNET. 

They walked side by side for some little time without 
speaking, through winding paths of alternate light and 
shade, sheltered by the latticework of crossed and twisted 
green boughs where only the amorous chant of charming 
birds now and then broke the silence with fitful and ten¬ 
der sweetness. All the air about them was fragrant and 
delicate,—tiny rainbow-winged midges whirled round and 
danced in the warm sunset-glow like flecks of gold in 
amber wine,—while here and there the distant glimmer 
of tossing fountains, or the soft emerald sheen of a prat¬ 
tling brook that wound in and out the grounds, amongst 
banks of moss and drooping fern, gave a pleasant touch of 
coolness and refreshment to the brilliant verdure of the 
luxuriant landscape. 

“ Speaking of creeds, Sali-lilma—saidTheos at last, look¬ 
ing down with a curious sense of compassion and protec¬ 
tion at his companion’s slight, graceful form—“ What re¬ 
ligion is it that dominates this city and people ? To-day, 
through want of knowledge, it seems I committed a 
nearly unpardonable offence by gazing at the beauty of the 
Virgin Priestess when I should have knelt face-hidden to 
her benediction,—thou must tell me something of the 
common laws of worship, that I err not thus blindly 
again.” 

Sah-lfima smiled. 

“ The common laws of worship are the common laws of 
custom,”—he replied— “No more,—no less. And in this 
we are much like other nations. We believe in no actual 
Creed,—who does ? We accept a certain given definition 
of a supposititious Divinity, together with the suitable 
maxims and code of morals accompanying that definition, 
... we call this Religion, . . and we wear it as we wear 
our clothing for the sake of necessity and decency, though 
truly we are not half so concerned about it as about the 
far more interesting details of taste in attire. Still, we 
have grown used to our doctrine, and some of us will 
fight with each other for the difference of a word respect- 


128 


ARDATI1. 


ing it,—and as it contains within itself many seeds of 
discord and contradiction, such dissensions are frequent, 
especially among the priests, who, were they but true to 
their professed vocation, should be able to find ways of 
smoothing over all apparent inconsistencies and maintain¬ 
ing peace and order. Of course we, in union with all 
civilized communities, worship the Sun, even as thou must 
do,—in this one leading principle at least, our faith is 
universal! ” 

Theos bent his head in assent. He was scarcely conscious 
of the action, but at that moment he felt, with Sah-lfima, 
that there was no other form of Divinity acknowledged 
in the world than the refulgent Orb that gladdens and 
illumines earth, and visibly controls the seasons. 

“And yet—” went on Sah-luma thoughtfully,—“the 
well-instructed know through our scientists and astrono¬ 
mers (many of whom are now languishing in prison for 
the boldness of their researches and discoveries) that the 
Bun is no divinity at all, but simply a huge planet,— 
a dense body surrounded f>y a luminous, flame-darting 
atmosphere,—neither self-acting nor omnipotent, but 
only one of many similar orbs moving in strict obedience 
to fixed mathematical laws. Nevertheless this knowl¬ 
edge is wisely kept back as much as possible from 
the multitude,—for, were science to unveil her marvels 
too openly to semi-educated and vulgarly constituted 
minds, the result would be, first Atheism, next Re¬ 
publicanism, and finally Anarchy and Ruin. If these 
evils,—which like birds of prey continually hover 
about all great kingdoms,—are to be averted, we must, 
for the welfare of the country and people, hold fast to 
some stated form and outward observance of religious 
belief.” 

He paused. Theos gave him a quick, searching 
glance. 

“ Even if such a belief should have no shadow of 
true foundation 1 ” he inquired—“ Can it be well for m 
to cling superstitiously to a false doctrine ? ” 

Sah-liima appeared to consider this question in his o^ 
mind for some minutes before replying. 

“ My friend, it is difficult to decide what is false a d 
what is true—” he said at last with a little shrug of 1 
shoulders—“But I think that even a false religion 
better for the masses than none at all. Men are close 


ARDATH. 


12 * 


■sillied to brutes, . . if the moral sense ceases to restrain 
them they at once leap the boundary line and give 
as much rein to their desires and appetites as the hyenas 
and tigers. And in some natures the moral sense is only 
kept alive by fear,—fear of offending some despotic, in¬ 
visible Force that pervades the Universe, and whose chief 
and most terrible attribute is not so much creative as de¬ 
structive power. To propitiate and pacify an unseen 
Supreme Destroyer is the aim of all religions,—and it is 
for this reason we add to our worship of the Sun that of 
the White Serpent, Nag&ya the Mediator. Nag&ya is the 
favorite object of the people’s adoration,—they may forget 
to pay their vows to the Sun, but never to Nagoya, who is 
looked upon as the emblem of Eternal Wisdom, the only 
pleader whose persuasions avail to soften the tyrannic 
humor of the Invincible Devourer of all things. We 
know how men hate Wisdom and cannot endure to be 
instructed, and yet they prostrate themselves in abject 
crowds before Wisdom’s symbol every day in the Sacred 
Temple yonder,—though I much doubt whether such 
constant devotional attendance is not more for the sake 
of Lysia than the Deified Worm 1 ” 

He laughed with a little undercurrent of scorn in his 
laughter,—and Theos saw as it were, the lightning of an 
angry or disdainful thought flashing through the sombre 
splendor of his eyes. 

“And Lysia is . .—? ” began Theos suggestively. 

“ The High Priestess of ]Nag&ya,” responded Sah-ltona 
slowly—“ Charmer of the god, as well as of the hearts of 
men ! The hot passion of love is to her a toy, clasped 
and unclasped so! in the pink hollow of her hand . 
and as he spoke he closed his fingers softly on the air and 
unclosed them again with an expressive gesture—“ And 
so long as she retains the magic of her beauty, so long 
will Nagaya worship hold Al-Kyris in check. Otherwise 
. . . who knows !—there have been many disturbances of 
late,—the teachings of the Philosophers have aroused a 
certain discontent,—and there are those who are weary 
of perpetual sacrifices and the shedding of innocent blood. 
Moreover this mad Khosrul of whom Nlphr&ta spoke 
lately, thunders angry denunciations of Lysia and Nag&ya 
in the open streets, with so much fervid eloquence that 
they who pass by cannot choose but hear, . . he hath a 
strange craze,—a doctrine of the future which he most 


AHDATH. 


*80 

furiously proclaims in the language prophets use. H® 
holds that far away in the centre of a Circle of pure Light, 
the true God exists,—a vast all glorious Being who 
with exceeding marvellous love controls and guides 
Creation toward some majestic end—even as a musi¬ 
cian doth melodize his thought from small sweet notes 
to perfect chord-woven harmonies. Furthermore, that 
thousands of years hence, this God will embody a portion 
olhis own Existence in human form and will send hither 
a wondrous creature, half-God, half-Man, to live our life, 
die our death, and teach us by precept and example, the 
surest way to eternal happiness. Tis a theory both 
strange and wild !—hast ever heard of it before ? ” 

He put the question indifferently, but Theos was mute. 
That horrible sense of a straining desire to speak when 
speech was forbidden again oppressed him,—he felt as 
though he were being strangled with his own unfailing 
tears. What a crushing weight of unutterable thoughts 
burdened his brain !—he gazed up at the serenely glowing 
sky in aching, dumb despair,—till slowly . . . very slowly, 
words came at last like dull throbs of pain beating be¬ 
tween his lips. . . 

“ I think . . I fancy ... I have heard a rumor of such 
doctrine . . . but I know as little of it as . . as thou , Sah- 
luma! . . I can tell thee no more . . jthan thou hast 
said! . . ” He paused and gaining more firmness of tone 
went on—“ It seems to me a not altogether impossible 
conception of Divine Benevolence,—for if God lives at ail. 
He must be capable of manifesting Himself in many ways 
both small and great, common and miraculous, though of 
a truth there are no miracles beyond what appear as 
such to our limited sight and restricted intelligence. But 
tell me ”—and here his voice had a ring of suppressed 
anxiety within it—“ tell me, Sah-lfuna, thine own thought 
concerning it! ” 

“I?— I think naught of it! ” replied Sah-ltima with airy 
contempt—“ Such a creed may find followers in time to 
come,—but now, of what avail to warn us of things that 
do not concern our present modes of life ? Moreover in 
the face of all religion, my own opinion should not alter, 
—I have studied science sufficiently well to know that 
there is no God!—and I am too honest to worship an un¬ 
proved and merely supposititious identity ! ” 

A shudder, as of extreme cold, ran through Theos’s 


ABBATH. 1S1 

veins, and as if impelled on by some invisible monitor he 
said almost mournfully: 

“ Art thou sure, Sah-lfima, thou dost not instinctively 
feel that there is a Higher Power hidden behind the veil of 
visible Nature ?—and that in the Far Beyond there may be 
an Eternity of Joy where thou shalt find all thy grandest 
aspirations at last fulfilled ? ” 

Sah-lftma laughed,—a clear, vibrating laugh as mellow 
as the note of a thrush in spring-time. 

“ Thou solemn soul! ” he exclaimed mirthfully—■*« My 
aspirations are fulfilled!—I aspire to no more than fame, 
—and that I hold,—that I shall keep so long as this world 
is lighted by the sun ! ” 

“ And what use is Fame to thee in Death ! ” demanded 
Theos with sudden and emphatic earnestness. 

Sah-luma stood still,—over his beautiful face came a 
shadow of intense melancholy,—he raised his brilliant ©yes 
full of wistful pathos and pleading. 

“I pray thee do not make me sad, my friend ! ” he mur¬ 
mured tremulously—“ These thoughts are like muttering 
thunder in my heaven! Death! ” . . and a quick sigh 
escaped him—“ ’Twill be the breaking of my harp and 
heart! . . the last note of my failing voice and ever- 
silenced song! ” 

A moisture as of tears glistened on the silky fringe of 
his eyelids,—his lips quivered,—he had the look of a Nar¬ 
cissus regretfully bewailing his own perishable loveliness. 
On a swift impulse of affection Theos threw one arm round 
his neck in the fashion of a confiding school-boy walking 
with his favorite companion. 

“Nay, thou slialt never die, Sah-luma!” he said with 
a sort of passionate eagerness,—“ Thy bright soul shall 
live forever in a sunshine sweeter than that of earth’s 
fairest midsummer noon! Thy song can never be silenced 
while heaven pulsates with the unwritten music of the 
spheres,—and even were the crown of immortality denied 
to lesser men, it is, it must be the heritage of the poet! 
For to him all crowns belong, all kingdoms are thrown 
open, all barriers broken down,—even those that divide 
us fr'Un the Unseen,—and God Himself has surely a smile 
to spare for His Singers who have made the sad world 
joyful if only for an hour! ” 

Sahdtma looked up with a pleased yet wondering 
glance. 


182 


AMDATW. 


“ Thou nast a silvery and persuasive tongue! ” he said 
gently—“ And thou speakest of God as if thou knewest 
on© akin to Him. Would I could believe all thou 
gayest! . . but alas !—I cannot. W© have progressed too 
far in knowledge, my friend, for faith .... yet. He 
hesitated a moment, then with a touch of caressing en¬ 
treaty in his tone went on. . . “ Thinkest thou in very 
truth that I shall live again ? For I confess to thee, it 
seems beyond all things strange and terrible to feel that 
this genius of mine,—this spirit of melody which inhabits 
my frame, should perish utterly without further scope 
for its abilities. There have been moments when my soul* 
ravished by inspiration, has, as it were, seized Earth likt* 
a full goblet of wine, and quaffed its beauties, its pleasures, 
its loves, its glories all in one burning draught of song! . . 
when I have stood in thought on the shadowy peaks of 
time, waiting for other worlds to string like beads on my 
thread of poesy,—when wondrous creatures habited in 
light and wreathed with stars have floated round and 
round me in rosy circles of fire,—and once, methought . . 
’twas long ago now—I heard a Voice distinct and sweet 
that called me upward, onward and away, I know not 
where,—save that a hidden Love awaited me ! ” He broke 
off with a rapt almost angelic expression in his eyes, then 
sighing a little he resumed : “ All dreams of course! . . 
vague phantoms,—creations of my own imaginative brain, 
—yet fair enough to fill my heart with speechless long¬ 
ings for ethereal raptures unseen, unknown! Thou hast, 
methinks, a certain faith in the unsolved mysteries,—but 
I have none,—for sweet as the promise of a future life 
may seem, there is no proof that it shall ever be. If one 
died and rose again from the dead, then might we al) 
believe and hope . . but otherwise. . . .” 

Oh, miserable Theos !—What would he not have given 
to utter aloud the burning knowledge that ate into his 
mind like slow-devouring fire! Again mute! . . again 
oppressed by that strange swelling at the heart that 
threatened to break forth in stormy sobs of penitence and 
prayer! Instinctively he drew Sah-lfima closer to his side 
—his breath came thick and fast , . he struggled with all 
his might to speak the words . . u One has died and risen 
from the dead! ”—but not a syllable could he form of the 
desired sentence! 

« Thdu Shalt live again, SabAfima!” was all he could 


ARDATH. *33 

say in low, half-smothered accents—“Thou hast within 
thee a flame that cannot perish ! ” 

Again Sah-lftma’s eyes dwelt upon him wdth a curious, 
appealing tenderness. 

“Thy words savor of sweet consolation! . ” he said 
half gayly, half sadly. “ May they be fulfilled! And if 
indeed there is a brighter world than this beyond the 
skies, I fancy thou and I will know each other, there as here, 
and be somewhat close companions! See! ”—and he 
pointed to a small green hillock that rose up like a shining 
emerald from the darker foliage of the surrounding trees— 
“ Yonder is my point of vantage whence we shall behold 
the sun go down like a warrior sinking on the red field of 
battle, the chimes are ringing even now for his departure, 
■—listen! ” ‘ 

They stood still for a space, while the measured, swing¬ 
ing cadence of bells came pealing through the stillness,— 
bells of every tone, that smote the air with soft or loud 
resonance as the faint wind wafted the sounds toward 
them,—and then they began to climb the little hill, Sah- 
l&ma walking somewhat in advance, with a tread as light 
and elastic as that of a young fawn. 

Theos, following, watched his movements with a strange 
affection,—every turn of his head, every gesture of his 
hand seemed fraught with meanings as yet inexplicable. 
The grass beneath their feet was soft as velvet and dotted 
with a myriad wild flowers,—the ascent was gradual and 
easy, and in a few minutes they had reached the summit, 
where Sah-lfima, throwing himself indolently on the 
smooth turf, pulled Theos gently dow r n by his side. 
There they rested in silence, gazing at the magnificent 
panorama laid out before them,—a panorama as lovely as 
a delicately pictured scene of fairy-land. Above, the sky 
was of a dense yet misty rose-color,—the sun, low on the 
western horizon appeared to rest in a vast, deep, purple 
hollow, rifted here and there with broad gashes of gold,— 
long shafts of light streamed upwards in order like the 
waving pennons of an angel-army marching,—and beyond, 
far away from this blazs of splendid color, the wide 
ethereal expanse paled into tender blue, whereon light 
clouds of pmk and white drifted like the fluttering blos¬ 
soms that fall from apple-trees in spring. 

Below, and seen through a haze of rose and amber, lay 
th© city of Al-Kyris,—its whit© domes, towers and 


134 


ARDATH. 


pinnacled palaces rising out of the mist like a glorious 
mirage afloat on the borders of a burning desert. Al-Kyris 
the Magnificent!—it deserves its name, Theos thought, as 
shading Lis eyes from the red glare he took a wondering 
and gradually comprehensive view of the enormous extent 
of the place. Me soon perceived that it was defended by 
six strongly fortified Avails, each placed within the other 
at long equal distances apart, so that it might have been 
justly described as six cities all merged together in one,— 
and from where he sat he could plainly discern the great 
square where he had rested in the morning, by reason of 
the white granite obelisk that lifted itself sheer up 
against the sky, undwarfed by any of the' surrounding 
buildings. 

This gigantic monument was the most prominent object 
in sight, with the exception of the sacred temple, which 
Sah-luma presently pointed out,—a round, fortress-like 
piece of architecture ornamented with twelve gilded 
towers from which bells were now clashing and jangling 
in a storm of melodious persistency. The hum of the 
city’s traffic and pleasure surged on the air like the noise 
made by swarming bees, while every now and then the 
sweet, shrill tones of some more than usually clear girl’s 
voice, crying out the sale of fruit or flowers, soared up 
song-wise through the luminous, semi-transparent vapor 
that half-veiled the clustering house-tops, tapering spires 
and cupolas in a delicate, nebulous film. 

Completely fascinated by the wizard-like beauty of the 
scene, Theos felt as though he could never look upon it 
long enough to master all its charms, . but his eyes ached 
with the radiance in which everything seemed drenched 
as with flame, and turning his gaze once more toward the 
sun, he saw that it had nearly disappeared. Only a blood- 
red rim peered spectrally above the gold and green hori¬ 
zon—and immediately overhead, a silver rift in the sky 
had widened slowly in the centre and narrowed at its end, 
thus taking the shape of a great outstretched sword that 
pointed directly downward at the busy, murmuring, 
glittering city beneath. 

It was a strange effect, and made on the mind of Theos 
a strange impression,—he was about to call Sah-luma’s 
attention to it, when an uncomfortable conscious¬ 
ness that they were no longer alone came over him,— 
instinctively he turned round, uttered a hasty exclama- 


ARDATH. 


ISo 


tion, and springing erect, found himself face to face with 
a huge black,—a man of some six feet in height and mus¬ 
cular in proportion, who, clad in a vest and tunic of the 
most vivid scarlet hue, leered confidentially upon him as 
their eyes met. Sah-luma rising also, but with less pre¬ 
cipitation, surveyed the intruder languidly and with a 
certain haughtiness. 

“ What now, Gazra ? Always art thou like a worm in 
the grass, crawling on thine errand with less noise than 
the wind makes in summer, . . I would thy mistress kept 
a fairer messenger! ” 

The black smiled,—if so hideous a contortion of his re¬ 
pulsive countenance might be called a smile, and slowly rais¬ 
ing his jetty arms hung all over with strings of coral and 
amber, made a curious gesture, half of salutation, half of 
command. As he did this, the clear, olive cheek of Sah- 
luma flushed darkly red,—his chest heaved, and linking his 
arm through that of Theos, he bent his head slightly and 
stood like one in an enforced attitude of attention. Then 
Gazra spoke, his harsh, strong voice seeming to come 
from some devil in the ground rather than from a human 
throat. 

“The Virgin Priestess of the Sun and the Divine Na- 
g&ya hath need of thee to-night, Sah-lftma ! ” he said, with 
a sort of suppressed derision underlying his words,—and 
taking from his breast a ring that glittered like a star, he 
held it out in the palm of one hand—“ And also ”—he 
added—“ of thy friend the stranger, to whom she desires 
to accord a welcome. Behold her signet! ” 

Theos, impelled by curiosity, would have taken the ring 
up to examine it, had not Sah-luma restrained him by a 
warning pressure of his arm,—he was only just able to 
see that it was in the shape of a coiled-up serpent with 
ruby eyes, and a darting tongue tipped with small dia¬ 
monds. What chiefly concerned him however was the 
peculiar change in Sah-luma’s demeanor,—something in 
the aspect or speech of Gazra had surely exercised a re¬ 
markable influence upon him. His frame trembled through 
and through with scarcely controlled excitement, . his 
eyes shot forth an almost evil fire, . and a cold, calm, 
somewhat cruel smile played on the perfect outline of 
his delicate mouth. Taking the signet from Gazrd’s palm, 
he kissed it with a kind of angry tenderness, . . then 
replied . . 


180 


AXIDATU. 


“ Tell thy mistress we shall obey her behest! Doubt¬ 
less she knows, as she knows all things, that to-night I 
am summoned by express command, to the Palace of our 
sovereign lord the King . . I am hound thither first as 
is my duty, but afterwards ...” He broke off as if he 
found it impossible to say more, and waved his hand in a 
light sign of dismissal. But Gazr& did not at once depart. 
He again smiled that lowering smile of his which resem¬ 
bled nothing so much as a hung criminal’s death-grin, 
and returned the jewelled signet to his breast. 

“ Afterwards ! . . yes . . afterwards! ” he said in em¬ 
phatic yet mock-solemn tones . . “Even so!” Advanc¬ 
ing a little he laid his heavy, muscular hand on Theos’s 
chest, and appeared mentally to measure his height and 
breadth—“ Strong nerves ! . . iron sinews! . . goodly 
flesh and blood! . . ’twill serve I ”—and his great, pro¬ 
truding eyes gleamed maliciously as he spoke,—then 
bowing profoundly he added, addressing both Sah-luma 
and Theos . . “Noble sirs, to-night out of all men in Al- 
Kyris shall you be the most envied! Farewell! ”—and 
once more making that curious salutation which had in 
it so much imperiousness and so little obeisance, he 
walked backward a few paces in the full lustre of the set 
sun’s after-glow, which intensified the vivid red of his 
costume and lit up all the ornaments of clear-cut amber 
that glittered against his swarthy skin,—then turning, he 
descended the hillock so swiftly that he seemed to have 
melted out of sight as utterly as a dark mist dissolving 
in air. 

“By my word, a most sooty and repellent bearer of a 
lady’s greeting ! ” laughed Theos lightly, as he sauntered 
arm in arm with his host on the downward path leading 
to the garden and palace—“ And I have yet to learn the 
true meaning of his message ! ” * 

“ ’Tis plain enough! ” replied Sah-luma somewhat 
sulkily, with the deep flush still coming and going on his 
face—“It means that we are summoned, . . thou as 
well as I, . . to oae of Lysia’s midnight banquets,—an 
honor that falls to few,—a mandate none dare disobey 1 
She must have spied thee out this morning—the only un¬ 
kneeling soul in all the abject multitude—Whence, perhaps, 
her present desire for thy company.” 

There was a touch of vexation in his voice, but Theos 
heeded it not. His heart gave a great bound against his 


ARDATH. 


187 


ribs as though pricked by a fire-tipped arrow,—something 
swift and ardent stirred in his blood like the flowing of 
quicksilver, . the picture of the dusky-eyed, witchingly 
beautiful woman he had seen that morning in her gold- 
adorned ship, seemed to float between him and the light, 
—her face shone out like a growing glory-flower in the 
tangled wilderness of his thoughts, and his lips trembled 
a little as he replied : 

“ She must be gracious and forgiving then, even as she 
is fair 1 For in my neglect of reverence due, I merited 
her scorn, . . not her courtesy. But tell me, Sah-lftma, . 
how oould she know I was a guest of thine ? ” 

Sah-lflma glanced at him half-pityingly, half disdain¬ 
fully. 

“ How oould she know ? Easily !—inasmuch as sh© 
knows all things. ’Twould have been strange indeed had 
she not known ! ” and he caught at a down-drooping rose 
and crushed its fragrant head in his hand with a sort of 
wanton petulance—“ The King himself is less acquainted 
with his people’s doings than the wearer of the All- 
Reflecting Eye 1 Thou hast not yet seen that weird 
mirror and potent dazzler of human sight, . . no,—but 
thou wilt see it ere long,—the glittering Fiend-guarding 
of the whitest breast that ever shut in passion ! ” His 
voice shook, and he paused,—then with some effort 
continued—“Yes,—Lysia has her secret commissioners 
everywhere throughout the length and breadth of the 
city, who report to her each circumstance that happens, 
no matter how trifling,—and doubtless we were followed 
home,—tracked step by step as we walked together, by 
one of her stealthy-footed servitors,—in this there would 
be naught unusual.” 

“ Then there is no freedom in Al-Kyris,—” said Theos 
wonderingly—“if the whole city thus lies under the 
circumspection of a woman ? ” 

Sah-lftma laughed rather harshly. 

“ Freedom ! By the gods, ’tis a delusive word embody¬ 
ing a vain idea 1 Where is there any freedom in life ? 
All of us are bound in chains and restricted in one way 
or the other,—the man who deems himself politically 
free is a slave to the multitude and his own ambition- 
while he who shakes himself loose from the trammels of 
custom and creed, becomes the tortured bondsman of 
desire, tied fast with bruising cords to the rack of his own 



138 


ABDATH. 


unbridled sense and appetite. There is no such thing as 
freedom, my friend, unless haply it may be found, in 
death ! Come,—let us in to supper,—the hour grows 
late, and my heart aches with an unsought heaviness,— 
I must cheer me with a cup of wine, or my songs to-night 
will sadden rather than rouse the King. Come,—and. 
thou shalt speak to me again of the life that is to be lived 
hereafter,”—and he smiled with certain pathos in his 
smile,—“ for there are times, believe me, when in spite of 
all my fame and the sweetness of existence, I weary of 
earth’s days and nights, and find them far too brief and 
mean to satisfy my longings. Not the world,—but 
worlds—should be the Poet’s heritage.” 

Theos looked at him, with a feeling of unutterable 
yearning affection, and regret, but said nothing, . . 
and together they ascended the steps of the stately 
marble terrace and paced slowly across it, keeping as 
near to each other as shadow to substance, and thus re¬ 
entered the palace, where the sound of a distant harp 
alone penetrated the perfumed stillness. It must be 
Niphr£ta who was playing, thought Theos, . . and what 
strange and plaintive chords she swept from the vibrating 
strings ! . . They seemed laden with the tears of broken¬ 
hearted women dead and buried ages upon ages ago ! 


CHAPTER XV 

S A H-L TJMA SINGS. 

As they left the garden the night fell, or appeared to 
fall, with almost startling suddenness, and at the same 
time, in swift defiance of the darkness, Sah-luma’s palace 
was illuminated from end to end by thousands of colored 
lamps, all apparently lit at once by a single flash of elec¬ 
tricity. A magnificent repast was spread for the Laureate 
and his guest, in a lofty, richly frescoed banqueting-hall, 
—a repast voluptuous enough to satisfy the most ardent 
votary that ever followed the doctrines of Epicurus. 
Wonderful dainties and still more wonderful wines were 
served in princely profusion—and while the strangely 
met and sympathetically united friends ate and drank, 
delicious music was played on stringed instruments by 


ART) A TH. 


139 


unseen performers. When, at intervals, these pleasing 
sounds ceased, Sah-luma’s conversation, brilliant, witty, 
refined, and sparkling with light anecdote and lighter jest, 
replaced with admirable sufficiency, the left-off harmonies, 
—and Tlieos, keenly alive to the sensuous luxury of his 
own emotions, felt that he had never before enjoyed such 
an astonishing, delightful, and altogether fairy-like feast. 
Its only fault was that it came to an end too soon, he 
thought, when, the last course of fruit and sweet comfits 
being removed, he rose reluctantly from the glittering 
board, and prepared to accompany his host, as agreed, to 
the presence of the King. 

In a very short time, so bewilderingly short as to seem 
a mere breathing-space,—he found himself passing through 
the broad avenues and crowded thoroughfares of Al-Kyris 
on his way to the Royal abode. He occupied a place in 
Sah-luma’s chariot,—a gilded car, shaped somewhat like 
the curved half of a shell, deeply hollowed, and set on 
two high wheels that as they rolled made scarcely any 
sound; there was no seat, and both he and Sah-luma 
stood erect, the latter using all the force of his slender 
brown hands to control the spirited prancing of the pair 
of jet-black steeds which, harnessed tandem-wise .to the 
light-vehicle, seemed more than once disposed to break 
loose into furious gallop regardless of their master’s curb¬ 
ing rein. 

The full moon was rising gradually in a sky as densely 
violet as purple pansv-leaves—but her mellow lustre was 
almost put to shame by the brilliancy of the streets, which 
were lit up on both sides by vari-colored lamps that 
diffused a peculiar, intense yet soft radiance, produced, as 
Sah-luma explained, from stored-up electricity. On the 
twelve tall Towers of the Sacred Temple shone twelve 
large, revolving stars, that as they turned emitted vivid 
flashes of blue, green, and amber flame like light-house 
signals seen from ships veering shorewards,— and the re¬ 
flections thus cast on the mosaic pavement, mingling with 
the paler beams of the moon, gave a weird and most fan¬ 
tastic effect to the scene. Straight ahead, a blazing arch 
raised like a bent bow against heaven, and having in its 
centre the word 

ZEPI1OJRAN1M, 

written in scintillating letters of fire, indicated to all be- 


AM) ATS. 


140 

holders the name and abode of the powerful Monarch un¬ 
der whose dominion, according to Sah-luma, Al-Kyris had 
reached its present height of wealth and prosperity. 

Theos looked everywhere about him, seeing yet scarcely 
realizing the wonders on whioh he gazed,—leaning one 
arm on the burnished edge of the car, he glanced now and 
then up at the dusky skies growing thick with swarming 
worlds, and meditated dreamily whether it might not be 
within the range of possibility to be lifted with Sah-luma, 
chariot, steeds and all into that beautiful, fathomless 
empyrean, and drive among planets as though they were 
flowers, reining in at last before some great golden gate, 
which unbarred should open into a lustrous Glory-Land 
fairer than all fair regions ever pictured! 

How like a god Sah-luma looked, he mused! . . his 
eyes resting tenderly on the light, glittering form he was 
never weary of contemplating. Could there be a more 
perfect head than that dark one crowned with myrtle ? . 
could there be a more dazzling existence than that en¬ 
joyed by this child of happy fortune, this royal Laureate 
of a mighty King ? How many poets starving in garrets 
and waiting for a hearing, would not curse their unlucky 
destinies when comparing themselves with such a Prince 
of Poesy, each word of whose utterance was treasured and 
enshrined in the hearts of a grateful and admiring people! 

This was Fame indeed, . . Fame at its utmost best,— 
and Theos sighed once or twice restlessly as he inwardly 
reflected how poor and unsatisfying were his own poetical 
powers, and how totally unfitted he was to cope with a 
rival so vastly his superior. Hot that he by any means 
desired to cross swords with Sah-luma in a duel of song, 
—that was an idea that never entered his mind; he was 
simply conscious of a certain humiliated feeling,—an im¬ 
pression that if he would be a poet at all, he must go back 
to the very first beginning of the art and re-learn all he 
had ever known, or thought he knew. 

Many strange and complex emotions were at work with¬ 
in him,. . emotions which he could neither control nor 
analyze,—and though he felt himself fully alive,—alive to 
his very finger-tips, he was ever and anon aware of a curi¬ 
ous sensation like that experienced by a suddenly startled 
somnambulist, who, just on the point of awaking, hesitates 
reluctantly on the threshold of dreamland, unwilling to 
Mwe one ttmim of shadow* to rmntfhm 4 mote seeming. 


ARDATH. 


141 


true, yet equally transient. Entangled in perplexed rever¬ 
ies he scarcely noticed the brilliant crowds of people that 
were flocking hither and thither through the streets, many 
of whom recognizing Sah-luma waved their hands or 
shouted some gay word of greeting,—he saw, as it were 
without seeing. The whirling pageant around him was 
both real and unreal,—there was always a deep sense of 
mystery that hung like a cloud over his mind,—a cloud 
that no resolution of his could lift,—and often he caught 
himself dimly speculating as to what lay behind that 
cloud. Something, he felt sure,—something that like the 
clew to an intricate problem, would explain much that 
was now altogether incomprehensible,—moreover he re- 
. morsefully realized that he had formerly known that clew 
and had foolishly lost it, but how he could not tell. 

His gaze wandered from the figure of Sah-luma to that 
of the attendant harp-bearer who, perched on a narrow 
foothold on the back of the chariot, held his master’s 
golden instrument aloft as though it were a flag of song, 
—the signal of a poet’s triumph, destined to float above 
the world forever! 

Just then the equipage arrived at the Kings palace. 
Turning the horses’ heads with a sharp jerk so that the 
mettlesome creatures almost sprang erect on their 
haunches, Sah-luma drove them swiftly into a spacious 
courtyard, lined with soldiers in full armor, and brilliantly 
illuminated, where two gigantic stone Sphinxes, with lit 
stars ablaze between their enormous brows, guarded a 
flight of steps that led up to what seemed to be an endless 
avenue of white marble columns. Here slaves in gorgeous 
attire rushed forward, and seizing the prancing coursers 
by the bridle rein, held them fast while the Laureate and 
his companion alighted. As they did so, a mighty and 
resounding clash of weapons struck the tesselated pave¬ 
ment,—every soldier flung his drawn sword on the ground, 
and doffed his helmet, and the cry of 

“ Hail, Sah-luma ! ” 

rose in one brief, mellow, manly shout that echoed vibrat- 
ingly through the heated air. Sah-luma meanwhile as¬ 
cended half-way up the steps, and there turning round, 
smiled and bowed with an exquisite grace and infinite 
condescension,—and again Theos gazed at him yearningly. 


142 


ARDATH. 


lovingly, and somewhat enviously too. What a picture 
he made standing between the great frowning sculptured 
Sphinxes! . contrasted with those cold and solemn visages 
of stone he looked like a dazzling butterfly or stray bird 
of paradise. His white garb glistened at every point with 
gems, and from his shoulders, where it was fastened with 
large sapphire clasps, depended a long mantle of cloth of 
gold, bordered thickly with swansdown,—this he held up 
negligently in one hand as he remained for a moment in 
full view of the assembled soldiery, graciously acknowl¬ 
edging their enthusiastic greetings, . . then with easy and 
unhasting tread he mounted the rest of the stairway, fol¬ 
lowed by Theos and his harp-bearer, and passed into the 
immense outer entrance hall of the Royal Palace, known,, 
as he explained to his guest, as the Hall of the Two 
Thousand Columns. 

Here among the massively carved pillars which looked 
like straight, tall, frosted trunks of trees, were assembled 
hundreds of men young and old,—evident aristocrats and 
nobles of high degree, to judge from the magnificence of 
their costumes, while in and out their brilliant ranks glided 
little pages in crimson and blue,—black slaves, semi-nude 
or clothed in vivid colors,—court officials with jewelled 
badges and insignias of authority,—military guards clad 
in steel armor and carrying short, drawn scimetars,—all 
talking, laughing, gesticulating and elbowing one another 
as they moved to and fro,—and so thickly were they 
pressed together that at first sight it seemed impossible 
to penetrate through so dense a crowd: but no sooner 
did Sah-luma appear, than they all fell back in orderly 
rows, thus making an open avenue-like space for his ad¬ 
mittance. 

He walked slowly, with proudly-assured mien and a 
confident smile,—bowing right and left in response to the 
respectful salutations he received from all assembled,—. 
many persons glanced inquisitively at Theos, but as 
he was the Laureate’s companion he was saluted with 
nearly equal courtesy. The old critic Zabastes, squeezing 
his lean, bent body from out the throng, hobbled after 
Sah-luma at some little distance behind "the harp-bearer, 
muttering to himself as he went, and bestowing many a 
side-leer and malicious grin on those among his acquaint¬ 
ance whom he here and there recognized. Theos noted 
his behavior with a vague sense of amusement,—the man 


ARB ATE. 


143 


took such evident delight in his own ill-humor, and seemed 
to be so thoroughly convinced that his opinion on all 
affairs was the only one worth having. 

“ Thou must check thy tongue to-day, Zabastes! ” said 
a handsome youth in dazzling blue and silver, who, just 
then detaching himself from the crowd, laid a hand on 
the Critic’s arm and laughed as he spoke—“ I doubt me 
much whether the King is in humor for thy grim fooling! 
His Majesty hath been seriously discomposed since his 
return from the royal tiger-hunt this morning, notwith¬ 
standing that his unerring spear slew two goodly and most 
furious animals. He is wondrous sullen,—and only the 
divine Sah-luma is skilled in the art of soothing his 
troubled spirit. Therefore,—if thou hast aught of crabbed 
or cantankerous to urge against thy master’s genius, thou 
hadst best reserve it for another time, lest thy withered 
head roll on the market-place with as little reverence as 
a dried gourd flung from a fruiterer’s stall! ” 

“ I thank thee for thy warning, young jackanapes! ” 
retorted Zabastes, pausing in his walk and leaning on his 
staff while he peered with his small, black, bad-tempered 
eyes at the speaker—“ Thou art methinks somewhat over 
well-informed for a little lacquey! What knowest thou 
of His Majesty’s humors ? Hast been his fly-i’-the-ear or 
sast-off sandal-string? I pray thee extend not thy range 
i>f learning beyond the proper temperature of the bath, 
and the choice of rare unguents for thy skin—greater 
knowledge than this would injure the tender texture of 
thy fragile brain ! Pah ! ”—and Zabastes sniffed the air 
in disgust—“ Thou hast a most vile odor of jessamine 
about thee! . . I would thou wert clean of perfumes and 
less tawdry in attire! ” 

Chuckling hoarsely he ambled onward, and chancing to 
catch the wondering backward glance of Theos, he made 
expressive signs with his fingers in derision of Sah-luma’s 
sweeping mantle, which now, allowed to fall to its full 
length, trailed along the marble floor with a rich, rustling 
sound, the varied light sparkling on it at every point and 
making it look like a veritable shower of gold. 

On through the seemingly endless colonnades they 
passed, till they came to a huge double door formed of 
two glittering, colossal winged figures holding enormous 
uplifted shields. Here stood a personage clad in a silver 
coat-of-mail, so motionless that at first he appeared to be 


144 


ABBA TH. 


part of the door, . but at the approach of Sah-luma he 
stirred into life and action, and touching a spring beside 
him, the arms of the twin colossi moved, the great double 
shields were slowly lowered, and the portals slid asunder 
noiselessly, thus displaying the sumptuous splendor of 
the Royal Presence-Chamber. 

It was a spacious and lofty saloon, completely lined with 
gilded .columns, between w r hich hung numerous golden 
lamps having long, pointed, amber pendants, that flashed 
down a million sparkles as of sunlight on the magnificent 
mosaic floor beneath. On the walls were rich tapestries 
storied with voluptuous scenes of love as well as ghastly 
gilmpses of warfare, . . and languishing beauties reposing 
in the arms of their lovers, or listening to the songs of 
passion, were depicted side by side with warriors dead on 
the field of battle, or struggling hand to hand in grim and 
bleeding conflict. The corners of this wonderful apart¬ 
ment were decked with all sorts of flags and weapons, 
and in the middle of the painted ceiling was suspended 
a huge bird with the spread wings of an eagle and the 
head of an owl, that held in its curved talons a superb 
girandole formed of a hundred extended swords, each bare 
blade having at its point a bright lamp in the shape of a 
star, while the clustered hilts composed the centre. 

Officers in full uniform were ranged on both sides of 
the room, and a number of other men richly attired stood 
about, conversing with each other in low tones, . . but 
though Theos took in all these details rapidly at a glance, 
his gaze soon became fixed on the glittering Pavilion that 
occupied the furthest end of the saloon, where on a 
massive throne of ivory and silver sat the chief object of 
attraction, . . Zephor&nim the King. The steps of the 
royal dais were strewn ankle-deep with flowers, . ... 
on either hand a bronze lion lay couchant, . . . and four 
gigantic black statues of men supported the monarch’s 
gold-fringed canopy, their uplifted arms being decked 
with innumerable rows of large and small pearls. The 
King’s features were not just then visible—he was leaning 
back in an indolent attitude, resting on his elbow, and 
half covering his face with one hand. The individual in 
the silver coat-of-mail whispered something in Sah-luma’s 
ear either by way of warning or advice, and then ad¬ 
vanced, prostrating himself before the dais and touching 
the ground humbly with his forehead and hands. The 


AEDATU. 


145 


King stirred slightly, but did not alter his position, . . 
he was evidently wrapped in a deep and seemingly un¬ 
pleasant reverie. 

“Dread my lord . . .!” began the Herald-in-Waiting, 
A movement of decided impatience on the part of the 
monarch caused him to stop short. 

“ By my soul! ” said a rich, strong voice that made 
itself distinctly audible throughout the spacious hall— 
“ Thou art ever shivering on the edge of thy duty when 
thou shouldst plunge bolclly into the midst thereof! How 
long wilt mouth thy words? . . Oanst never speak 
plain ? ” 

“ Most potent sovereign! ” went on the stammering 
herald—“ Sah-ltlma waits thy royal pleasure ! ” 

“ Sah-l&ma! ” and the monarch sprang erect, his eyes 
flashing fire—“ Nay, that he should wait, bodes ill for 
thee, thou knave! How darest thou bid him wait ?— 
Entreat him hither with all gentleness, as befits mine 
equal in the realm 1 ” 

As he thus spoke, Theos was able to observe him more 
attentively ; indeed it seemed as though a sudden and im¬ 
pressive pause had occurred in the action of a drama in 
order to allow him as spectator, to thoroughly master the 
meaning of one special scene. Therefore he took the op¬ 
portunity offered, and, looking full at Zephor&nim, 
thought he had never beheld so magnificent a man. Of 
stately height and herculean build, he was most truly royal 
in outward bearing,—though a physiognomist judging 
him from the expression of his countenance would at once 
have given him all the worst vices of a reckless volupt¬ 
uary and utterly selfish sensualist. His straight, low 
brows indicated brute force rather than intellect,—hia 
eyes, full, dark, and brilliant, had in them a suggestion 
of something sinister and cruel, despite their fine clear¬ 
ness and lustre, while the heavy lines of his mouth, only 

E artly concealed by a short, thick black beard, plainly 
etokened that the monarch’s tendencies were by no meaj&a 
toward the strict and narrow paths of virtue. 

Nevertheless he was a splendid specimen of the human 
animal at its best physical development, and his attire, 
which w T as a mixture of the civilized and savage, suited 
him as it certainly would not have suited any less stalwart 
frame. His tunic was of the deepest purple broidered 
with gold,—liis vest of pale amber silk was thrown o pm 
10 


146 


ART) ATE. 


so as to display to the greatest advantage his broad mus¬ 
cular chest and throat glittering all over with g.ems,—and 
he wore, flung loosely across his left shoulder, a superb 
leopard skin, just kept in place by a clasp of diamonds. 
His feet were shod with gold-colored sandals,—his arms 
were bare and lavishly decked with jewelled armlets,—his 
rough, dark hair was tossed carelessly about his brow, 
whereon a circlet of gold studded with large rubies glit¬ 
tered in the light,—from his belt hung a great sheathed 
sword, together with all manner of hunting implements, 
—and beside him, on a velvet-covered stand, lay a short 
sceptre, having at its tip one huge egg-shaped pearl set in 
sapphires. 

Noting the grand poise of his figure, and the statu¬ 
esque grace of his attitude, a strange, hazy, far-off mem¬ 
ory began to urge itself on Theos’s mind,—a memory that 
with every second grew more painfully distinct, .... 
He had seen Zephordnim before! Where, he could not 
tell,—but he was as positive of it as that he himself 
lived ! . . and this inward conviction was accompanied 
by a certain undefinable dread,—a vague terror and 
foreboding, though he knew no actual cause for fear. 

He had however no time to analyze his emotion,—for 
just then the Herald-in-Waiting, having performed a 
backward evolution from the throne to the threshold of 
the audience-chamber, beckoned impatiently to Sah-lftma, 
who at once stepped forward, bidding Theos keep close 
behind him. The harp-bearer followed, . . and thus all 
three approached the dais where the King still stood erect, 
awaiting them. Zab&stes the Critic glided in also, almost 
unnoticed, and joined a group of courtiers at the furthest 
end of the long, gorgeously lighted room, . while at sight 
of the Laureate the assembled officers saluted, and all com 
versation ceased. At the foot of the throne Sah-loma 
paused, but made no obeisance,—raising his glorious eyes 
to the monarch’s face he smiled,—and Theos beheld with 
amazement, that here it was not the Poet who rever¬ 
enced the King, but the King who reverenced the 
Poet! 

What a strange state of things ! he thought,—especially 
when the mighty Zephoranim actually descended three 
steps of his flower-strewn dais, and grasping Sah-lftma’s 
hands raised them to his lips with all the humility of a 
splendid savage paying homage to his intellectual com 


ARDATH. 


147 


queror! It was a scene Theos was destined never to 
forget, and he gazed upon it as one gazes on a magnifi¬ 
cently painted picture, wherein two central figures fasci¬ 
nate and most profoundly impress the beholder’s imagina¬ 
tion. He heard, with a vague sense of mingled pleasure 
and sadness, the deep, mellow tones of the monarch’s voice 
vibrating through the silence, . . . 

“ Welcome, my Sah-lftma!—Welcome at all times, but 
chiefly welcome when the heart is weighted by care ! I 
have thought of thee all day, believe me ! . . aye, since 
early dawn, when on my way to the chase I heard in the 
depths of the forest a happy nightingale singing, and 
deemed thy voice had taken bird-shape and followed me! 
And that I sent for thee in haste, blame me not!—as well 
blame the desert athirst for rain, or the hungry heart 
agape for love to come and fill it! ” Here his restless eye 
flashed on Theos, who stood quietly behind Sah-lflma, 
passive, yet expectant of he knew not what. 

“ Whom hast thou there ? . . A friend ? ” This as 
Sah-luma apparently explained something in alow tone, .. 
“ lie is welcome also for thy sake ”—and he extended one 
hand, on which a great ruby signet burned like a red star, 
to Theos, who, bending over it, kissed it with the grave 
courtesy he fancied due to kings. Zephoranim appeared 
good-naturedly surprised at this action, and eyed him 
somewhat scrutinizingly as he said: “ Thou art not of 
Sail-luma’s divine calling assuredly, fair sir, else thou 
wouldst hardly stoop to a mere crowned head like mine ! 
Soldiers and statesmen may bend the knee to their chosen 
rulers, but to whom shall poets bend ? They, who with 
arrowy lines cause thrones to totter and fall,—they, who 
with deathless utterance brand with infamy or hallow 
with honor the most potent names of kings and emperors, 
—they by whom alone a nation lives in the annals of the 
future,—what homage do such elect gods owe to the pass¬ 
ing holders of one or more earthly sceptres ? Thou art 
too humble, methinks, for the minstrel-vocation,—dost 
call thyself a Minstrel? or a student of the art of song?” 

Theos looked up, his eyes resting full on the monarch’s 
countenance, as he replied in low, clear tones : 

“ Most noble Zephoranim, I am no minstrel! . . nor do 
I deserve to be called even a student of that high, sweet 
music-wisdom in which Sah-luma alone excels! All I 
dare hope for is that I may learn of him in some small 


ABDA Til. 


148 

degree the lessons he has mastered, that at some future 
time I may approach as nearly to his genius as a common 
flower on earth can approach to a fixed star in the furthest 
blue of heaven! ” 

Sah-luma smiled and gave him a pleased, appreciative 
glance,—Zephor&nim regarded him somewhat curiously. 

“ By my faith, thou’rt a modest and gentle disciple of 
Poesy!” he said—“ We receive thee gladly to our court 
as suits Sah-luma’s pleasure and our own! Stand thee 
near thy friend and master, and listen to the melody of 
his matchless voice,—thou shalt hear therein the mysteries 
of many things unravelled, and chiefly the mystery of 
love* in which all other passions centre and have power.” 

Re-ascending the steps of the dais, he flung himself in¬ 
dolently back in his throne,—whereupon two pages 
brought a magnificent chair of inlaid ivory and placed it 
near the foot of the dais at his right hand. In this Sah- 
luma seated himself, the pages arranging his golden 
mantle around him in shining, picturesque folds,—while 
Theos, withdrawing slightly into the background, stood 
leaning against a piece of tapestry on which the dead fig¬ 
ure of a man w as depicted lying prone on the sward with 
a great wound in his heart, and a bird of prey hovering 
above him expectant of its grim repast. Kneeling on one 
kne© close to Sah-luma, the harp-bearer put the harp in 
tune, and swept his fingers lightly over the strings,—then 
came a pause. A clear, small bell chimed sweetly on the 
stillness, and the King, raising himself a little, signed to 
a black slave who carried a tall silver wand emblematic of 
some office. 

“ Let the women enter! ” he commanded—“ Speak but 
Sah-luma’s name and they will gather like waves rising 
to the moon,—but bid them be silent as they come, lest 
they disturb thoughts more lasting than their loveliness.” 

This with a significant glance toward the Laureate, 
who, sunk in his ivory chair, seemed rapt in meditation. 

His beautiful face had growm grave, . even sad, . . he 
played idly with the ornaments at his belt, . and his eyes 
had a drowsy yet ardent light within them, as they 
flashed now and then from under the shade of his long 
curling lashes. The slave departed on his errand . . . 
and Zab&stes edging himself out from the hushed and 
attentive throng of nobles stood as it were in the fore¬ 
ground of the picture, his thin lips twisted into a sneer. 


ARDATB. 


149 


and his lean hands grasping his staff viciously as though 
he longed to strike somebody down with it. 

A moment or so passed, . and then the slave returned, 
his silver rod uplifted, marshalling in a lovely double pro¬ 
cession of white-veiled female figures that came gliding 
along as noiselessly as fair ghosts from forgotten tombs, 
each one carrying a garland of flowers. They floated, 
rather than walked, up to the royal dais, and there pros¬ 
trated themselves two by two before the King, whose fiery 
glance rested upon them more carelessly than tenderly,— 
and as they rose, they threw back their veils, displaying 
to full view such exquisite faces, such languishing, brill¬ 
iant eyes, such snow-white necks and arms, such graceful 
voluptuous forms, that Theos caught at the tapestry near 
him in reeling dazzlement of sight and sense, and won¬ 
dered how Sah-lfima seated tranquilly in the reflective 
attitude he had assumed, could maintain so unmoved and 
indifferent a demeanor. 

Indifferent he was, however, even when the unveiled fair 
ones, turning from the King to the Poet, laid all their 
garlands at his feet,—he scarcely noticed the piled-up 
flowers, and still less the lovely donors, who, retiring 
modestly backwards, took their places on low silken divans, 
provided for their accommodation, in a semicircle round the 
throne. Again a silence ensued,—Sah-lfima was evidently 
centred like a spider in a web of his own thought-weav- 
ing,—and his attendant gently swept the strings of the 
harp again to recall his wandering fancies. Suddenly he 
looked up, . . . his eyes were sombre, and a musing 
trouble shadowed the brightness of his face. 

“ Strange it is, O King ”—he said in low, suppressed 
tones that had in them a quiver of pathetic sweetness,— 
“ Strange it is that to-night the soul of my singing dwells 
on sorrow! Like a stray bird flying ’mid falling leaves, 
for a ship drifting out from sunlight to storm, so does my 
]fancy soar among drear, flitting images evolved from the 
■downfall of kingdoms,—and I seem to behold in the dis¬ 
tance the far-off shadow of Death. . . .” 

* “ Talk hot of death! ” interrupted the King loudly and 

in haste,-*- u ’Tis a raven note that hath been croaked in 
mine ears too often and too harshly already! What! . 
hast thou been met by the mad Khosrfil who lately sprang 
on me> even as a famished wolf on prey, and grasping my 
bridle-rein bade me prepare to die! ’Twafc an ill jesfy 


150 


^ BDATB.) 


t 


and one not to be lightly forgiven! ‘ Prepare to die, O 
Zephoranim ? ’ he cried — 4 For thy time of reckoning is 
come! ’ By my soul! ” and the monarch broke into a 
boisterous laugh—“Had he bade me prepare live ’twould 
have been more to the purpose! But yon frantic gray- 
beard prates of naught but death, . . . ’twere well he 
should be silenced.” And as he spoke, he frowned, his 
hand involuntarily playing with the jewelled hilt of his 
sword. 

“ Aye,—death is an unpleasing suggestion! ” suddenly 
said Zab&stes, who had gradually moved up nearer and 
nearer till he made one of the group immediately round 
Sah-luma—“ ’Tis a word that should never be mentioned 
in the presence of Kings! Yet, . . notwithstanding the 
incivility of the statement, . . it is most certain that His 
Most Potent Majesty as well as His Majesty’s Most 
Potent Laureate, must . . die . . /” And he accom¬ 
panied the words ‘‘must . . die . .” with two decisive 
taps of his staff, smacking his withered lips meanwhile as 
though he tasted something peculiarly savory. 

“And thou also, Zabastes ! ” retorted the King with a 
dark smile, jestingly drawing his sword and pointing it 
full at him,—then, as the old Critic shrank slightly at 
the gleam of the bare steel, replacing it dashingly in its 
sheath,—“ Thou also ! . . and thine ashes shall be cast to 
the four winds of heaven as suits thy vocation, while 
those of thy master and thy master’s King lie honorably 
urned in porphyry and gold! ” 

Zabastes bowed with a sort of mock humility. 

“ It may be so, most mighty Zephoranim,” he returned 
composedly—“Nevertheless ashes are always ashes,— 
and the scattering of them is but a question of time! 
For urns of gold and porphyry do but excite the cupidity 
of the vulgar-minded, and the ashes therein sealed, 
whether of King or Poet, stand as little chance of reverent 
handling by future generations as those of many lesser 
men. And ’tis doubtful whether the winds will know 


1 

i 


any difference in the scent or quality of the various 
pinches of human dust tossed on their sweeping circles,— 
for the substance of a man reduced to earth-atoms is 
always the same,—and not a grain of him can prove 
whether he was once a Monarch crowned, a Minstrel 
pampered, or a Critic contemned! ” 

And he eh tickled, as one having the best of the argu 


AMD ATE. 151 

ment. The King deigned no answer, but turned his eyes 
again on Sah-luma, who still sat pensively silent. 

“ How long wilt thou be mute, my singing-emperor ? ” 
he demanded gently—“ Canst thou not improvise a can¬ 
ticle of love even in the midst of thy soul’s sudden sad¬ 
ness ? ” 

At this, Sah-luma roused himself,—signing to his at¬ 
tendant he took the harp from him, and resting it lightly 
on one knee, passed his hands over it once or twice, half 
musingly, half doubtfully. A ripple of music answered 
his delicate touch,—music as soft as the evening wind 
murmuring among willows. Another instant and his 
voice thrilled on the silence,—a voice wonderful, far- 
reaching, mellow, and luscious as with suppressed tears, 
containing within it a passion that pierced to the heart of 
the listener, and a divine fullness such as surely was 
never before heard in human tones! 

Theos leaned forward breathlessly, his pulses beating 
with unwonted rapidity, .... what . . what was it that 
Sah-luma sang? .... A Love-song! in those caressing 
vowel-sounds which composed the language of Al- 
Kyris, . . a love-song, burning as strong wine, tender as 
the murmur of the sea on mellow, moon-entranced 
evenings,—an arrowy shaft of rhyme tipped with fire and 
meant to strike home to the core of feeling and there in¬ 
flict delicious wounds!.but, as each well-chosen 

word echoed harmoniously on his ears, Theos shrank 
back shuddering in every limb, ... a black, frozen numb¬ 
ness seemed to pervade his being, an awful, madden¬ 
ing terror possessed his brain and he felt as though he 
were suddenly thrown into a vast, dark chaos where no 
light should ever shine! For Sah-luma’s song was his 
song! . . his own , his very own ! . . lie knew it well ? 
He had written it long ago in the hey-day of his youth 
when he had fancied all the world was waiting to be set 
to the music of his inspiration, . . he recognized every 
fancy, . . every couplet . . every rhyme! . . The delicate 
glowing ballad was his , . . his alone! . . and Sah-luma 
had no right to it! He, Theos, was the Poet, . . not this 
royally favored Laureate who had stolen his deas and 
filched his jewels of thought . . . aye! and he would 

tell him so to his face! .... he would speak! . . . 
he would cry aloud his claims in the presence of the 
King and demand instant justice!. 




AMD ATM, 


TM 


He strove for utteranoe,—his voice was gone! . . his 
lips were moveless as the lips of a stone image! Stricken 
absolutely mute, but with his sense of hearing quickened 
to an almost painful acuteness, he stood ereot and motion¬ 
less,—rage and fear contending in his heart, enduring the 
torture of a truly terrific mystery of mind-despair, . . 
forced, in spite of himself, to listen passively to the lov©- 
hts of his own dead Past revived anew in hi® 



l 7 s singing! 


CHAPTER XVI. 


Tan peophet off noon. 


A few slow, dreadful minutes elapsed, . . and then,— 
then the first sharpness of his strange mental agony sub¬ 
sided. The strained tension of his nerves gave way, and 
a dull apathy of grief inconsolable settled upon him. He 
felt himself to be a man mysteriously accurst,—banished 
as it were out of life, and stripped of all he had once held 
dear and valuable. How had it happened? Why was he 
set apart thus, solitary, poor, and empty of all worth, 
while another reaped the fruits of his genius ? ... . He 
heard the loud plaudits of the assembled court shaking 
the vast hall as the Laureate ended his song—and, droop¬ 
ing his head, some stinging tears welled up in his eyes 
and fell scorchingly on his clasped hands—tears wrung 
from the very depth of his secretly tortured soul. At 
that moment the beautiful S&h-luma turned toward him 
smiling, as one who looked for more sympathetic appro¬ 
bation than that offered by a mixed throng,—and meeting 
that happy self-conscious, bland, half-inquiring gaze, he 
strove his best to return the smile. Just then Zepho- 
ranim’s fiery glance swept over him with a curious ex¬ 
pression of wonder and commiseration. 

“ By the gods, yon stranger weeps! ” said the monarch 
in a half-bantering tone... then with more gentleness he 
added .. “Yet ’tis not the first time Sah-luma’s voice 
hath unsealed a fountain of tears! No greater triumph 
can minstrel have than this,—to move the strong man’s 
heart to woman’s tenderness! We have heard tell of 
poets, who singing of death have persuaded many straight¬ 
way to die,—but when they sing of sweeter themes, of 


ARDATR. 


153 


lover’s vows, of passion-frenzies, and languorous desires, 
cold is the blood that will not warm and thrill to their 
divinely eloquent allurements. Come hither, fair sir! ” 
and he beckoned to Theos, who mechanically advanced in 
obedience to the command—“ Thou hast thoughts of thine 
own, doubtless, concerning Love, and Love’s fervor of de¬ 
light, . . hast aught new to tell us of its bewildering spells 
whereby the most dauntless heroes in every age have 
been caught, conquered, and bound by no stronger chain 
than a tress of hair, or a kiss more luscious than all the 
honey hidden in lotus-flowers ? ” 

Theos looked up dreamily .. . his eyes wandered from 
the King to Sah-luma as though in wistful search for 
some missing thing, . . his lips were parched and burning 
and his brows ached with a heavy weight of pain, . . but 
he made an effort to speak and succeeded, though his 
words came slowly and without any previous reflection 
on his own part. 

“ Alas, most potent Sovereign! ” he murmured . . “ I 
am a man of sad memories, whose soul is like the 
desert, barren of all beauty! I may have sung of love in 
my time, but my songs were never new,—never worthy to 
last one little hour! And whatsoever of faith, passion, 
or heart-ecstasy my fancy could with devious dreams de¬ 
vise, Sah-luma knows, . . and in Sah-luma’s song all my 
best thoughts are said! ” 

There was a ring of intense pathos in his voice as he 
spoke,—and the King eyed him compassionately. 

“ Of a truth thou seemest to have suffered! ” he ob¬ 
served in gentle accents .. “ Thou hast a look as of one 
bereft of joy. Hast lost some maiden love of thine ? . . 
and dost thou mourn her still ? ” 

A pang bitter as death shot through Theos’s heart, .. 
had the monarch suddenly pierced him with his great 
sword he could scarcely have endured more anguish! 
For the knowledge rushed upon him that he had indeed 
lost a love so faithful, so unfathomable, so pure and per¬ 
fect, that all the world weighed in the balance against it 
would have seemed but a grain of dust compared to its 
inestimable value ! . . but what that love was, and from 
whom it emanated, he could no more tell than the tide 
can tell in syllabled language the secret of its attraction 
to the moon. Therefore he made no answer, . . only a 
deep, half-smothered sigh broke from him, . and Zepho* 


154 


ARDATH. 


ranirn apparently touched by his dejection continued 
good-naturedly: 

“ Nay, nay !—we will not seek to pry into the cause of 
thy spirit’s heaviness. . . Enough! think no more of our 
thoughtless question,—there is a sacredness in sorrow! 
Nevertheless we shall strive to make thee in part forget 
thy grief ere thou leavest our court and city, . . . mean¬ 
while sit thou there”—and he pointed to the lower step 
of the dais, . . “And thou, Sali-luma, sing again, and this 
time let thy song be set to a less plaintive key.” 

He leaned back in his throne, and Theos sat wearily 
down among the flowers at the foot of the dais as com¬ 
manded. He was possessed by a strange, inward dread,— 
the dread of altogether losing the consciousness of his own 
identity,—and while he strove to keep a firm grasp on his 
mental faculties he at the same time abandoned all hope 
of ever extricating himself from the perplexing enigma 
in which he was so darkly involved. Forcing himself by 
degrees into comparative calmness, he determined to resign 
himself to his fate,—and the idea he had just had of boldly 
claiming the ballad sung by Sah-luma as his own, com¬ 
pletely passed out of his mind. 

How could he speak against this friend whom he loved, 
. . aye !—more than he had ever loved any living thing! 
—besides what could he prove ? To begin with, in his 
present condition he could give no satisfactory account of 
himself,—if he were asked questions concerning his nation 
or birth-place lie could not answer them, . . he did not 
even know where he had come from, save that his memory 
persistently furnished him with the name of a place called 
“Ardath.” But what was this “ Ardath ” to him, lie 
mused ?—What did it signify ? . . what had it to do with 
his immediate position ? Nothing, so far as he could tell! 
His intellect seemed to be divided into two parts—one a 
total blank, . . the other filled with crowding images that 
while novel w^ere yet curiously familiar. And how could 
he accuse Sah-luma of literary theft, when he had none of 
his own dated manuscripts to bear out his case ? Of course 
he could easily repeat his boyhood’s verses word for word, 
. . . but what of that ? He, a stranger in the city, befriended 
and protected by the Laureate, would certainly be consid¬ 
ered by the people of Al-Kyris as far more likely to steal 
Sali-luma’s thoughts than that Sah-luma should steal his! 

No!—there was no help for it,—as matters stood he 


ARDATE. 


155 


could say nothing,—he could only feel as though he were 
the sorrowful ghost of some long-ago dead author returned 
to earth to hear others claiming his works and passing 
them off as original compositions. And thus he was 
scarcely moved to any fresh surprise when Sah-luma, 
giving back the harp to his attendant, rose up, and stand¬ 
ing erect in an attitude unequalled for grace and dignity, 
began to recite a poem he remembered to have written 
when he was about twenty years of age,—a poem daringly 
planned, which when published had aroused the bitterest 
animosity of the press critics on account of what they 
called its “ forced sublimity.” The sublimity was by no 
means “forced”—it was the spontaneous outcome of a 
fresh and ardent nature full of enthusiasm and high-soar¬ 
ing aspiration, but the critics cared nothing for this, . . all 
they saw was a young man presuming to be original, and 
down they came came upon him accordingly. 

He recollected all the heart-sore sufferings he had 
endured through that ill-fated and cruelly condemned 
composition,—and now he was listlessly amazed at the 
breathless rapture and excitement it evoked here in this 
marvellous city of Al-Kyris, where everything seemed 
more strange and weird than the strangest dream! It 
was a story of the gods before the world was made,—of 
love deep buried in far eternities of light, . . of vast celes¬ 
tial shapes whose wanderings through the blue deep of 
apace were tracked by the birth of stars and suns and 
wonder-spheres of beauty, ... a fanciful legend of tran¬ 
scendent heavenly passion, telling how all created worlds 
throbbed amorously in the purple seas of pure ether, and 
how Love and Love alone was the dominant cloud of the 
triumphal march of the Universe .... And with what 
matchless eloquence Sah-luma spoke the glowing lines! 

. . with what clear and rounded tenderness of accent! . . . 
how exquisitely his voice rose and fell in a rhythmic rush 
like the wind surging through many leaves, .... while 
ever and anon in the very midst of the divinely entranc¬ 
ing joy that chiefly characterized the poem, his musicianly 
art infused a touch of minor pathos,—a suggestion of the 
eternal complaint of Nature which even in the happiest 
moments asserts itself in mournful under-tones. The 
effect of his splendid declamation was heightened by a 
few soft, running passages dexterously played on the harp 
by his attendant harpist and introduced just at the right 


156 


ABBaTH. 


moments ; and Theos, notwithstanding the peculiar posi¬ 
tion in which he was placed, listened to every well-re¬ 
membered word of his own work thus recited with a gradu¬ 
ally deepening sense of peace,—he knew not why, for the 
verses, in themselves, were strangely passionate and wild. 
The various impressions produced on the hearers were 
curious to witness—the King moved restlessly, his bronzed 
cheeks alternately flushing and paling, his hand now grasp¬ 
ing his sword, now toying with the innumerable jewels 
that blazed on his breast—the women’s eyes at one mo¬ 
ment sparkled with delight and at the next grew humid 
with tears,—the assembled courtiers pressed forward, 
awed, eager, and attentive,—the very soldiers on guard 
seemed entranced, and not even a small side-whisper dis¬ 
turbed the harmonious fall and flow of dulcet speech that 
rippled from the Laureate’s lips. 

When he ceased, there broke forth such a tremendous 
uproar of applause that the amber pendents of the lamps 
swung to and fro in the strong vibration of so many up¬ 
lifted voices,—shouts of frenzied rapture echoed again 
and again through the vaulted roof like th-uds of thunder, 
—shouts in which Theos joined,—as why should he not ? 
He had as good a right as any one to applaud his own 
poem! . It had been sufficiently abused heretofore,—he 
was glad to find it now so well appreciated, at least in 
Al-Kyris,—though he had no intention of putting forward 
any claim to its authorship. No,—for it was evident 
he had in some inscrutable way been made an outcast 
from all literary honor,—and a sort of wild recklessness 
grew up within him,—a bitter mirth, arising from curi¬ 
ously mingled feelings of scorn for himself and tender¬ 
ness for Sah-luma,—and it was in this spirit that he 
loudly cheered the triumphant robber of his stores of 
poesy, and even kept up the plaudits long after they 
might possibly have been discontinued. Never perhaps 
did any poet receive a grander ovation, . . but the ex¬ 
quisitely tranquil vanity of the Laureate was not a whit 
moved by it, . . his dazzling smile dawned like a gleam 
of sunshine all over his beautiful face, but, save for this, 
he gave no sign of even hearing the deafening acclama¬ 
tions that resounded about him on all sides. 

“ A new Hyspiros! ” cried the King enthusiastically, 
and, detaching a magnificently cut ruby from among the 
gems he wore, he flung it toward his favored minstreL 


ARDATR. 


157 


It flashed through the air like a bright spark of flame and 
fell, glistening redly, on the pavement just half-way be¬ 
tween Theos and Sah-luma. . . . Theos eyed it with faintly 
amused indifference, . . . the Laureate bowed gracefully, 
but did not stoop to raise it,—he left that task to his harp- 
bearer, who, taking it up, presented it to his master hum¬ 
bly on one knee. Then, and only then Sah-luma received 
it, kissed it lightly and placed it negligently among his 
other ornaments, smiling at the King as he did so with 
the air of one who graciously condescends to accept a 
gift out of kindly feeling for the donor. ZaMstes mean¬ 
while had 'witnessed the scene with an expression of 
mingled impatience, malignity, and disgust written plainly 
on his furrowed features, and as soon as the hubbub of 
applause had subsided, he struck his staff on the ground 
with an angry clang, and exclaimed irritably: 

“ Now may the god shield us from a plague of fools! 
What means this throaty clamor ? Ye praise what ye do 
not understand, like all the rest of the discerning public I 
Many is the time, as the weariness of my spirit witness- 
eth, that I have heard Sah-luma rehearse,—but never in 
all my experience of his prolix multiloquence, hath he 
given utterance to such a senseless jingle-jangle of verse* 
jargon as to-night! Strange it is that the so-called ‘ po¬ 
etical ’ trick of confusedly heaping words together regard¬ 
less of meaning, should so bewilder men ancl deprive them 
of all wise and sober judgment! By my faith! . . I would 
as soon listen to the gabble of geese in a farmyard as to 
the silly glibness of such inflated twaddle, such maw¬ 
kish sentiment, such turgid garrulity, such ranting verb¬ 
osity. . . .” 

A burst of laughter interrupted and drowned his harsh 
voice,—laughter in which no one joined more heartily 
than Sah-luma himself. He had resumed his seat in his 
ivory chair, and leaning back lazily, he surveyed his 
Critic with tolerant good-humor and complete amuse¬ 
ment, while the King’s stentorian “ Ha, ha, ha! ” resound¬ 
ed in ringing peals through the great audience-chamber. 

“ Thou droll knave! ” cried Zephor&im at last, dashing 
away the drops his merriment had brought into his eyes 
—“ Wilt kill me with thy bitter-mouthed jests ? . . of a 
truth my sides ache at thee! What ails thee now ? . . 
Come,—we will have patience, if so be our mirth can be 
I'estraiiiedj—speahwhat flaw canst thou find in our 


158 


ABB ATX. 


Sah-luma’s pearl of poesy ?—what spots on the sun of 
his divine inspiration ? As the Serpent lives, thou art an 
excellent mountebank and well deservest thy master’s 
pay! ” 

He laughed again,—but Zabastes seemed in nowise 
disconcerted. His withered countenance appeared to har¬ 
den itself into lines of impenetrable obstinacy,—tucking 
his long staff under his arm he put his fingers together 
in the manner of one who inwardly counts up certain 
numbers, and with a preparatory smack of his lips he 
began: 

“ Free speech being permitted to me, O most mighty 
Zephoranim, I would in the first place say that the poem 
so greatly admired by your Majesty, is totally devoid of 
common sense. It is purely a caprice of the imagination, 
—and what is imagination ? A mere aberration of the 
cerebral nerves,—a morbidity of brain in which the 
thoughts brood on the impossible,—on things that have 
never been, and never will be. Thus, Sah-luma’s verse 
resembles the incoherent ravings of a moon-struck mad¬ 
man,—moreover, it hath a prevailing tone of forced 
sublimity . . ” here Theos gave an involuntary start,— 
then, recollecting where he was, resumed liis passive 
attitude—“ which is in every way distasteful to the ears 
that love plain language. For instance, what warrant is 
there for this most foolish line : 

“ ‘ The solemn chanting of the midnight stars.’ 

’Tis vile, ’tis vile! for who ever heard the midnight stars 
or any other stars chant? . . who can prove that the 
heavenly bodies are given to the study of music ? Hath 
Sah-luma been present at their singing lesson?” Here 
the old critic chuckled, and warming with his subject- 
advanced a step nearer to the throne as he went on 
“ Hear yet another jarring simile: 

“ ‘ The wild winds moan for pity of the world.’ 

Was ever a more indiscreet lie? A brazen lie!—for the 
tales of shipwreck sufficiently prove the pitilessness of 
winds,—and however much a verse-weaver may pretend to 
be in the confidence of Nature, he is after all but the dupe 
of his own frenetic dreams. One couplet hath most dis¬ 
cordantly annoyed my senses-—’tis the veriest doggerel: 

“ * The sup with amorous clutch 

T6$rs dff the emerald girdle of the rose I’ 


ARDATH. 


159 


O monstrous piece of extravagance !—for how can the 
Sun (his Deity set apart) 4 clutch ’ without hands ?—and 
as for * the emerald girdle of the rose ’—I know not what 
it means, unless Sah-luma considers the green calyx of 
the flower a 4 girdle,’ in which case his wits must be far 
gone, for no shape of girdle can any sane man descry in 
the common natural protection of a bud before it blooms! 
There was a phrase too concerning nightingales,—and 
the gods know we have heard enough and too much of 
those over-praised birds! . Here he was interrupted 
by one of his frequent attacks of coughing, and again the 
laughter of the whole court broke forth in joyous echoes. 

44 Laugh—laugh! ” said Zabastes, recovering himself 
and eying the throng with a derisive smile— 44 Laugh, ye 
witless bantlings born of folly !—and cling as you will to 
the unsubstantial dreams your Laureate blows for you in 
the air like a child playing with soap-bubbles! Empty 
and perishable are they all,—they shine for a moment, 
then break and vanish,—and the colors wherewith they 
sparkled, colors deemed immortal in their beauty, shall 
pass away like a breath and be renewed no more! ” 

44 Not so ! ” interposed Theos suddenly, unknowing why 
he spoke, but feeling inwardly compelled to take up Sah- 
luma’s defence—“for the colors are immortal, and per¬ 
meate the Universe, whether seen in the soap-bubble or 
the rainbow! Seven tones of light exist, co-equal with 
the seven tones in music, and much of what we call Art 
and Poesy is but the constant reflex of these never-dying 
tints and sounds. Can a Critic enter more closely into 
the secrets of Nature than a Poet? . . nay!—for he 
would undo all creation were he able, and find fault with 
its fairest productions! The critical mind dwells too 
persistently on the mere surface of things, ever to com¬ 
prehend or probe the central deeps and well-springs of 
thought. Will a Zabastes move us to tears and passion ? . . 
Will he make our pulses beat with any happier thrill, or 
stir our blood into a warmer glow ? He may be able to 
sever the petals of a lily and name its different sections, 
its way of growth and habitude,—but can he raise it 
from the ground alive and fair, a perfect flower, full of 
sweet odors and still sweeter suggestions ? No!—but Sah- 
luma with entrancing art can make us see, not one lily 
but a thousand lilies, all waving in the light wind of his 
fancy,—not one world but a thousand worlds, circling 



160 


ABLATE. 


through the empyrean of his rhythmic splendor,—not 
one joy but a thousand joys, all quivering song-wise 
through the radiance of his clear illumined inspiration. 
The heart,—the human heart alone is the final touch¬ 
stone of a poet’s genius,—and when that responds, who 
shall deny his deathless fame ! ” 

Loud applause followed these words, and the King, 
leaning forward, clapped Theos familiarly on the 
shoulder: 

“ Bravely spoken, sir stranger! ” he exclaimed—“ Thou 
hast well vindicated thy friend’s honor! And by my 
soul!—thou hast a musical tongue of thine own!—who 
knows hut that thou also may be a poet yet in time to 
come!—And thou, Zabastes—” here he turned upon the 
old Critic, who, while Theos spoke, had surveyed him 
with much cynical disdain—“get thee hence! Thine 
arguments are all at fault, as usual! Thou art thyself a 
disappointed author—hence thy spleen! Thou art blind 
and deaf, selfish and obstinate,—for thee the very sun is 
a blot rather than a brightness,—thou couldst, in thine 
own opinion, have created a fairer luminary doubtless had 
the matter been left to thee! Aye, aye!—we know thee 
+'or a beauty-hating fool,—and though we laugh at thee, 
we find thee wearisome 1 Stand thou aside and be straight¬ 
way forgotten!—we will entreat Sah-luma for another 
song.” 

The discomfited Zabastes retired, grumbling to himself 
in an undertone,—and the Laureate, whose dreamy eyes 
had till now rested on Theos, his self-constituted advo¬ 
cate, with an appreciative and almost tender regard, once 
more took up his harp, and striking a few rich, soft chords 
was about to sing again, when a great noise as of clank¬ 
ing armor was heard outside, mingled with a steadily 
increasing, sonorous hum of many voices and the in¬ 
creased tramp, tramp of marching feet. The doors were 
flung open,—the Iierald-in-Waiting entered in hot haste 
and excitement, and prostrating himself before the throne 
exclaimed: 

“ O great King, may thy name live forever! Khosrul 
is taken! ” 

Zephor&nim’s black brows drew together in a dark scowl 
and he set his lips hard. 

“ So ! For once thou art quick-tongued in the utter¬ 
ance of news ! ” he said half-scornfully—“ Bring hither 


ARDATH. 


161 


the captive,—an he chafes at his bonds we will ourselves 
release him. and he touched his sword significantly— 
“ to a wider freedom than is found on earth ! ” 

A thrill, ran through the courtly throng at these words, 
and the women shuddered and grew pale. Sah-luma, irri¬ 
tated at the sudden interruption that had thus distracted 
the general attention from his own fair and flattered self, 
gave an expressively petulant glance toward Theos, who 
smiled back at him soothingly as one who seeks to coax a 
spoilt child out of its ill-humor, and then all eyes were 
turned expectantly toward the entrance of the audience- 
chamber. 

A band of soldiers clad from head to foot in glittering 
steel armor, and carrying short drawn swords, appeared, 
and marched with quick, ringing steps, across the hall 
toward the throne—arrived at the dais, they halted, 
wheeled about, saluted, and parted asunder in two com¬ 
pact lines, thus displaying in their midst the bound and 
manacled figure of a tall, gaunt, wild-looking old man, 
with eyes that burned like bright flames beneath the cav¬ 
ernous shadow of his bent and shelving brows,—a man 
whose aspect was so grand, and withal so terrible, that an 
involuntary murmur of mingled admiration and affright 
broke from the lips of all assembled, like a low wind surg¬ 
ing among leaf-laden branches. This was Khosrul,—the 
Prophet of a creed that was to revolutionize the world,— 
the fanatic for a faith as yet unrevealed to men,—the 
dauntless foreteller of the downfall of Al-Kyris and its 
King! 

Theos stared wonderingly at him . . at his funereal, 
black garments which clung to him with the closeness of 
a shroud,—at his long, untrimmed beard and snow-white 
hair that fell in disordered, matted locks below his 
shoulders,—at his majestic form which in spite of cords 
and feathers he held firmly erect in an attitude of fearless 
and composed dignity. There was something supernat- 
urally grand and awe-inspiring about him, . . . something 
commanding as well as defiant in the straight and steady 
look with which he confronted the King,—and for a mo¬ 
ment or so a deep silence reigned,—silence apparently born 
of superstitious dread inspired by the mere fact of his 
presence. Zephoranim’s glance rested upon him with 
cold and supercilious indifference,—seated haughtily up¬ 
right in his throne, with one hand resting on the hilt of 
11 -- - 



162 


ARDATR. 


his sword, he showed no sign of anger against, or interest 
in, his prisoner, save that, to the observant eye of Tlieos, 
the veins in his forehead seemed to become suddenly 
knotted and swollen, while the jewels on his bare chest 
heaved restlessly up and down with the unquiet panting 
of his quickened breath. 

“ We give thee greeting, Khosrul! ” he said slowly and 
with a sinister smile—“ The Lion’s paw has struck thee 
down at last! Too long hast thou trilled with our 
patience,—thou must abjure thy heresies, . or die! What 
sayest thou now of doom,—of judgment,—of the waning 
of glory? Wilt prophesy ? . . wilt denounce the Faith? 
. . Wilt mislead the people? . . Wilt curse the King? . . 
Thou mad sorcerer !—devil bewitched and blasphemous! 
. . What shall hinder me from at once slaying thee ? ” 
And he half drew his formidable sword from its sheath. 

Khosrul met his threatening gaze unflinchingly. 

“Nothing shall hinder thee, Zephor&nim,” he replied, 
and his voice, deeply musical and resonant, struck to 
Theos’s heart with a strange, foreboding chill—“ Nothing 
—save thine own scorn of cowardice! ” 

The monarch’s hand fell from his sword-hilt,—a flush 
of shame reddened his dark face. He bent his fiery eyes 
full on the captive—and there was something in the sor¬ 
rowful grandeur of the old man’s bearing, coupled with 
his enfeebled and defenceless condition, that seemed to 
touch him with a sense of compassion, for, turning 
suddenly to the armed guard, he raised his hand with a 
gesture of authority. . . 

“ Unloose his fetters ! ” he commanded. 

The men hesitated, apparently doubting whether they 
had heard aright. 

Zephoranim stamped his foot impatiently. 

“ Unloose him, I say! . . By the gods! must I repeat 
the same thing twice ? Since when have soldiers grown 
deaf to the voice of their sovereign ? . . And why have 
ye bound this aged fool with such many and tight bonds ? 
His veins and sinews are not of iron,—methinks ye 
might have tied him with thread and met with small 
resistance! I have known many a muscular deserter 
from the army fastened less securely when captured! 
Unloose him—and quickly too !—Our pleasure is that, 
ere he dies, he shall speak an he will, in his own defence 
as a free man.” 


ARDATH. 


163 


In trembling haste and eagerness the guards at once 
set to work to obey this order. The twisted cords were 
untied, . the heavy iron fetters wrenched asunder,—and 
in a very short space Khosrul stood at comparative liberty 
At first he did not seem to understand the King’s gener¬ 
osity toward him in this respect, for he made no attempt 
to move,—his limbs were rigidly composed as though 
they were still bound,—and so stiff and motionless was 
his weird, attenuated figure that Theos beholding him, 
began to wonder whether he were made of actual flesh 
and blood, or whether he might not more possibly be some 
gaunt spectre, forced back by mystic art from another 
world in order to testify, of things unknown, to living 
men. Zephoranim meanwhile called for his cup-bearer, 
a beautiful youth radiant as Ganymede, who at a sign 
from his royal master approached the Prophet, and 
pouring wine from a jewelled flagon into a goblet of gold, 
offered it to him with a courteous salute and smile. 
Khosrul started violently like one suddenly wakened from 
a deep dream,—shading his eyes with his lean and 
wrinkled hand he stared dubiously at the young and 
gayly attired servitor,—then pushed the goblet aside with 
a shuddering gesture of aversion. 

“ Away . . Away! ” he muttered in a thrilling whisper 
that penetrated to every part of the vast hall—“ Wilt 
force me to drink blood? ” He paused,—and in the same 
low, horror-stricken tone, continued . “ Blood . . Blood! 
It stains the earth and sky! . . its red, red waves swallow 
up the land! . . . The heavens grow pale and tremble,— 
the silver stars blacken and decay, and the winds of the 
desert make lament for that which shall come to pass ere 
ever the grapes be pressed or the harvest gathered! 
Blood .... blood! The blood of the innocent! . . ’tis 
a scarlet sea, wherein, like a broken and empty ship, A1- 
Kyris founders . . founders . . never to rise again! ” 

These words, uttered with such hushed yet passionate 
intensity produced a most profound impression. Several 
courtiers exchanged uneasy glances, and the women half 
rose from their seats, looking toward the King as though 
silently requesting permission to retire. But an impe¬ 
rious negative sign from Zephoranim obliged them to 
resume their places, though they did so With obvious 
nervous reluctance. 

« Thou art mad, Khosrul ’’—then said the monarch ix\ 


164 


ART) ATE. 


calmly measured accents—“ And for thy madness, as also 
for thine age, we have till now retarded justice, out of 
pity. Nevertheless, excess of pity in great Kings too oft 
degenerates into weakness—and this we cannot suffer to 
be said of us, not even for the sake of sparing thy few 
poor remaining years. Thou hast overstepped the limit 
of our leniency,—and madman as thou art, thou showest 
a madman’s cunning,—thou dost break the laws and art 
dangerous to the realm,—thou art proved a traitor, and 
must straightway die. Thou art accused . . 

“ Of honesty! ” interrupt Khosrul suddenly, with a 
touch of melancholy satire in his tone. . “ I have spoken 
Truth in an age of lies! ’Tis a most death-worthy deed ! ” 

He ceased, and again seemed to retire within himself as 
though he were a Voice entering at will into the carven 
image of man. Zephoranim frowned angrily, yet art* 
swered nothing—and a brief pause ensued. Theos grew 
more and more painfully interested in the scene,—them 
■was something in it that to his mind seemed fatefully 
suggestive and fraught with impending evil. Suddenly 
Sah-luma looked up, his bright face alit with laughter. 

“ Now by the Sacred Veil,”—he said gayly, addressing 
himself to the King—“ Your Majesty considers this ven¬ 
erable gentleman with too much gravity! I recognize in 
him one of my craft,—a poet, tragic and taciturn of humor, 
and with a taste for melodramatic simile, . . marked you 
not the mixing of his word-colors in the picture he drew 
of Al-Kyris, foundering like a wrecked ship in a blood-red 
sea, whilst overhead trembled a white sky set thick with 
blackening stars ? As I live, ’twas not ill-devised for a 
madman’s brain ! . . and so solemn a ranter should serve 
your Majesty to make merriment withal, in place of my 
poor Zabastes, whose peevish jests grow somewhat stale 
owing to the Critic’s chronic want of originality ! Nay, 
I myself shall be willing to enter into a rhyming joust 
with so disconsolately morose a contemporary, and who 
knows wdiether, betwixt us twain, the chords of the major 
and minor may not be harmonized in some new and 
altogether marvellous fashion of music such as we wot not 
of ! ” And turning to Khosrul he added—“ Wilt break a 
lance of song with me, sir gray-beard ? Thou shalt croak 
of death, and I will chant of love,—and the King shall 
pronounce judgment as to which melody hath the most 
potent and lasting sweetness ! 


ARB ATH. 


165 


Khosrul lifted his head and met the Laureate’s half- 
mirthful, half-mocking smile with a look of infinite com¬ 
passion in his own deep, solemnly penetrating eyes. 

“ Thou poor deluded singer of a perishable day! ” he 
said mournfully—“ Alas for thee, that thou must die so, 
soon, and be so soon forgotten! Thy fame is worthless 
as a grain of sand blown by the breath of the sea ! . . thy 
pride and thy triumph evanescent as the mists of the 
morning that vanish in the heat of the sun! Great has 
been the measure of thine inspiration,—yet thou hast 
missed its true teaching,—and of all the golden threads 
of poesy placed freely in thy hands thou hast not woven 
one clew whereby thou shouldst find God! Alas, Sah- 
lum! Bright soul unconscious of thy fate! . . Thou 
shalt be suddenly and roughly slain, . and there sits thy 
destroyer! ” 

And as he spoke he raised his shrunken, skeleton-like 
hand and pointed steadfastly to—the King! There was 
a momentary hush ... a stillness as of stupefied amaze¬ 
ment and horror, . . then, to the apparent relief of all 
present, Zephoranim burst out laughing. 

“ By all the virtues of Nag&ya ! ” he cried—“ This is 
most excellent fooling! I, Zephoranim, the destroyer of 
my friend and first favorite in the realm ? . . Old man, 
thy frenzy exceeds belief and exhausts patience,—though 
of a truth I am sorry for the shattering of thy wits,—’tis 
gad that reason should be lacking to one so revered and 
grave of aspect. Dear to me as my royal crown is the 
life of Sah-lftma, through whose inspired writings alone 
my name shall live in the annals of future history—for 
the glory of a great poet must ever surpass the renown 
of the greatest King. Were Al-Kyris besieged by a 
thousand enemies, and these strong palace-walls razed 
to the ground by the engines of warfare, we would our¬ 
selves defend Sah-lhma !—aye, even cry aloud in the heat 
of combat that he, the Chief Minstrel of our land, should 
be sheltered from fury and spared from death, as the only 
one capable of chronicling our vanquishment of victory! ” 

Sah-luma smiled and bowed gracefully in response to 
this enthusiastic assurance of his sovereign’s friendship, 
—but nevertheless there was a slight shadow of uneasi* 
ness on his bold, beautiful brows. He had evidently been 
uncomfortably impressed by Khosrul’s words, and the 
restless anxiety reflected in his face communicated itself 


166 


ABBA TIL 


by a sort of electric thrill to Theos, whose heart began to 
beat heavily with a sense of vague alarm. “ What is this 
Khosrul ?” he thought half resentfully—“ and how dares he 
predict for the adored, the admired Sah-luma so dark and 
unmerited an end? ...” Hark! . . . what was that 
low, far-off rumbling as of underground wheels rolling 
at full speed ? ... He listened,—then glanced at those 
persons who stood nearest to him, . . no one seemed to 
hear anything unusual. Moreover all eyes were fixed 
fearfully on Khosrul, whose before rigidly sombre de¬ 
meanor had suddenly changed, and who now with raised 
head, tossed hair, outstretched arms, and wild gestures 
looked like a flaming Terror personified. 

“ Victory . . Victory! ” he cried, catching at the King’s 
last word. . . “ There shall be no more victory for thee, 
Zephor&nim! . . Thy conquests are ended, and the flag 
of thy glory shall cease to wave on the towers of thy 
strong citadels! Heath stands behind thee ! . . Destruc¬ 
tion clamors at thy palace-gates! . . and the enemy that 
cometh upon thee unawares is an enemy that none shall 
vanquish or subdue, not even they who are mightiest 
among the mighty! Thy strong men of war shall be 
trodden down as wheat,—thy captains and rulers shall 
tremble and wail as children bewildered with fear:—thy 
great engines of battle shall be to thee as naught,—and 
the arrows of thy skilled archers shall be useless as 
straws in the gathering tempest of fire and fury ! Zeph- 
or&nim! Zephor&nim! . .” and his voice shrilled with 
terrific emphasis through the vaulted chamber. . . 
“ The days of recompense are come upon thee,—swift and 
terrible as the desert-wind! . . The doom of Al-Kyris is 
spoken, and who shall avert its fulfilment! Al-Kyris 
the Magnificent shall fall . . shall fall! . . its beauty, its 
greatness, its pleasantness, its power, shall be utterly 
destroyed . . and ere the waning of the midsummer 
moon not one stone of its glorious buildings shall be left 
to prove that here was once a city ? Fire! . . Fire ! . .” 
and here he ran abruptly to the foot of the royal dais, 
his dark garments brushing against Theos as he passed,— 
and springing on the first step, stood boldly within hand- 
reach of the King, who, taken aback by the suddenness of 
his action, stared at him with a sort of amazed and angry 
fascination . . “To arms, Zephoranim! . . To arms! . . 
take up thy sword and shield . . get thee forth and fight 


ARDATH. 


167 


with fire! Fire! . . How shall the King quench it? . . 
how shall the mighty monarch defend his people against 
it ? See you not how it fills the air with red devouring 
tongues of flame! . . the thick smoke reeks of blood! . . 
Al-Kyris the Magnificent, the pleasant city of sin, the 
idolatrous city, is broken in pieces and is become a waste 
of ashes! Who will join with me in a lament for Al- 
Kyris ? I will call upon the desert of the sea to hear my 
voice, . . I will pour forth my sorrows on the wind, and 
it shall carry the burden of grief to the four quarters of 
the earth,—all nations shall shudder and be astonished at 
the direful end of Al-Kyris, the city beautiful, the empress 
of kingdoms! Woe unto Al-Kyris, for she hath suffered 
herself to be led astray by her rulers! . . . she hath 
drunken deep of the innocent blood and hath followed after 
idols, . . her abominations are manifold and the hearts of 
her young men and maidens are full of evil! Therefore 
because Al-Kyris delighteth in pride and despiseth re¬ 
pentance, so shall destruction descend furiously upon her, 
even as a sudden tempest in themid-watches of the night, 
—she shall be swept away from the surface of the earth, 
. . . wolves shall make their lair in her pleasant gardens, 
and the generations of men shall remember her no more! 
Oh ye kings, princes, and warriors !—Weep, weep for the 
doom of Al-Kyris ! ” and now his wild voice sank by 
degrees into a piteous plaintiveness—“ Weep!—for never 
again on earth shall be found a fairer dwelling-place for 
the lovers of joy ! . . never again shall be builded a gran¬ 
der city for the glory and wealth of a people ! Al-Kyris! 
Al-Kyris! Thou that boastest of ancient days and long 
lineage! . . thou art become a forgotten heap of ruin! . . 
the sands of the desert shall cover thy temples and 
palaces, and none hereafter shall inquire concerning thee! 
None shall bemoan thee, . . . none shall shed tears for the 
grievous manner of thy death, . . none shall know the 
names of thy mighty heroes and men of fame,—for thou 
shalt vanish utterly and be lost far out of memory even 
as though thou hadst never been! ” 

Here he stopped abruptly and caught his breath hard, 
—his blazing eyes preternaturally large and brilliant fixed 
themselves steadfastly on the sculptured ivory shield that 
surmounted the back of the King’s throne, and over liis 
drawn and wrinkled features came an expression of such 
ghastly horror that instinctively every one present turned 


168 


AEDATH. 


their looks in the same direction. Suddenly a shriek, 
piercing and terrible, broke from his lips,—a shriek that 
like a swiftly descending knife seemed to saw the air dis¬ 
cordantly asunder. 

“ See . . See ! ” he cried in fierce haste and eagerness 
. . “See how the crested head gleams ! . . How the soft, 
shiny throat curves and glistens ! . . how the lithe body 
twists and twines! . . Hence !—Hence, accursed Snake! 

. . thou poisoner of peace! . . thou quivering.sting in the 
flesh !—thou destroyer of the strength of manhood! 
What hast thou to do with Zephoranim, that thou dost 
wind thy many coils about his heart ? . . Lysia . . . 
Lysia! ...” here the King started violently, his face 
flushing darkly red, “Thou delicate abomination! . . Thou 
tyrannous treachery . . what shall be done unto thee in 
the hour of darkness! Put off, put off the ornaments of 
gold and the jewels wherewith thou adornest thy beauty, 
and crown thyself with the crown of an endless affliction! 

. . for thou shalt be girdled round about with flame, and 
fire shall be thy garment! . . thy lips that have drunken 
sweet wine shall be steeped in bitterness !—vainly shalt 
thou make thyself fair and call aloud on thy legion of 
lovers, . . they shall be as dead men, deaf to thine en¬ 
treaties, and none shall answer thee,—no, not one ! None 
shall hide thee from shame or offer thee comfort,—in the 
midst of thy lascivious delights shalt thou suddenly 
perish! . . and my soul shall be avenged on thy sins, thou 
unvirgined Virgin !—thou Queen-Courtesan ! ” 

Scarcely had he uttered the last word, when the King 
with a furious oath sprang upon him, grasped him by the 
throat, and thrusting him fiercely down on the steps of 
the dais, placed one foot on his prostrate body. Then 
drawing his gigantic sword he lifted it on high, . . . the 
bright blade glittered in air ... . an audible gasp of 
terror broke from the throng of spectators, . . . another 
second and KhosruPs life would have paid the forfeit for 
his temerity . . . when crash! . . a sudden and tremen¬ 
dous clap of thunder shook the hall, and every lamp was 
extinguished! Impenetrable darkness reigned, . . thick, 
close, suffocating darkness, . . the thunder rolled away in 
sullen, vibrating echoes, and there was a short, impressive 
silence. Then piercing through the profound gloom came 
the clamorous cries and shrieks of frightened women, . . 
the horrible, selfish scrambling, pushing and struggling o i 


ARDATH. 


169 

a bewildered, panic-stricken crowd, . . the helpless, nerve¬ 
less, unreasoning distraction that human beings exhibit 
when striving together for escape from some imminent 
deadly peril,—and though the King’s stentorian voice 
could be heard above all the tumult loudly commanding 
order, his alternate threats and persuasions were of no 
avail to calm the frenzy of fear into which the whole court 
was thrown. Groans and sobs, . . wild entreaties to 
Nag&ya and the Sun-God . . curses from the soldiery, 
who intent on saving themselves were brutally trying to 
force a passage to the door regardless of the wailing 
women, whose frantic appeals for rescue and assistance 
were heart-rending to hear, . . all these sounds increased 
the horror of the situation,—and Theos, blind, giddy, and 
confused, listened to the uproar around him with some¬ 
thing of the affrighted compassion that a stranger in Hell 
might be supposed to feel when hearkening to the cease¬ 
less plaints of the self-tortured wicked. He endeavored 
to grope his way to Sah-luma’s side,—and just then lights 
appeared, . . lights that were not of earth’s kindling, . . 
strange, wandering flames that danced and flitted along 
the tapestried walls like will-o’-the-wisps on a dark morass, 
and flung a ghastly blue glare on the pale, uneasy faces 
of the scared people, till gathering in a sort of lurid ring 
round the throne, they outlined in strong relief the en¬ 
raged, Titanesque figure of Zephor£nim whose upraised 
sword looked in itself like in arrested flash of lightning. 
Brighter and brighter grew the weird lustre, illumining the 
whole scene. . the vast length of the splendid hall, . . the 
shining armor of the soldiers . . . the white robes of the 
women. . . the flags and pennons that hung from the roof 
and swayed to and fro as though blown by a gust of wind 
. . every object near and distant was soon as visible as in 
broad day,—and then . . , & terrible cry of rage burst 
from the King,—the cry of a .maddened wild beast. 

“ Death and fury! ” he shputed, striking his sword 
with a fierce clang against the silver pedestal of the 
throne, . . “ Where is Khosrul ? ” 

The silence of ail absolute dismay answered him, . . . 
Khosrul had fled! Like a cloud melting in air, or a ghost 
vanishing into the nether-world, he had mysteriously dis¬ 
appeared ! .... he had escaped, no one knew how, from 
under the very feet and out of the very grasp of the irate 
monarch, whose baffled wrath now knew no bounds. 



170 


AM) ATM. 


“ Dolts, idiots, cowards! 99 . . and he hurled these epithets 
at the timorous crowd with all the ferocity of a giant hurl¬ 
ing stones at a swarm of pigmies . . “ Babes that are 
frighted by a summer thunder-storm ! . . Ye have let yon 
aocursed heretic slip from my hands ere I had choked him 
with his own lie ! O ye fools! . Ye puny villains ! . . I 
take shame to myself that I am King of such a race of 
weaklings ! Lights! . . Bring lights hither, ye whimper¬ 
ing slaves,—ye shivering poltroons! . . What! call your¬ 
selves men! . Nay, . ye are feeble girls prankt out in 
men’s attire, and your steel corselets cover the faintest 
hearts that ever failed for dastard fear! Shut fast the 
palace-gates! . . . . close every barrier! . . . . search every 
court and corner, lest haply this base false Prophet be still 
here in hiding,—he that blasphemed with ribald tongue 
the High Priestess of our Faith, the holy Virgin Lysia! .. 
Are ye all turned renegades and traitors that ye will suffer 
him to go free and triumph in his lawless heresy ? Ye 
shameless knaves! . Ye milk-veined rascals! . . What 
abject terror makes ye thus quiver like aspen-leaves in a 
storm ? . . this darkness is but a conjurer’s trick to scare 
women, and Khosrlu’s followers can so play with the 
strings of electricity that ye are duped into accepting tho 
wtich-glamour as Heaven’s own cloud-flame! By the 
gods! If Al-Kyris falls, as yon dotard pronounceth, her 
ruins shall bury but few heroes! O superstitious and 
degraded souls ! . . I would ye were even as I am—a man 
dauntless,—a soldier unafraid.” 

His powerful and indignant voice had the effect of par¬ 
tially checking the panic and restoring something like 
order,—the pushing and struggling for an immediate exit 
ceased,—the armed guards in shamed silence began to 
marshal themselves together in readiness to start on the 
search for the fugitive,—and several pages rushed in with 
flaring torches, which cast a wondrous fire-glow on the 
surging throng of ea^er and timid faces, the brilliant 
costumes, the flash of jewels, the glimmer of swords and 
the dark outlines of the fluttering tapestry,—all forming 
together a curious chiaroscuro, from which the massive 
figure of Zephor&nim stood out in bold and striking prom¬ 
inence against the white and silver background of his 
throne. Vaguely bewildered and lost hi a dim stupefac¬ 
tion of wonderment, Theos looked upon everything with 
an odd sense of strained calmness,.. the glittering saloon 


ARB ATII. 


Ill 


whirled before his eyes like a passing picture in a magic 
glass . .. and then ... an imperative knowledge forced it¬ 
self upon his mind, —He had witnessed this seif-same seme 
before ! Where ? and when ? . . . Impossible to say,—but 
he distinctly remembered each incident! This impression 
however left him as rapidly at it had come, before he had 
any time to puzzle himself about it, . . and just at that 
moment Sah-luma’s hand caught his own,—Sah-luma’s 
voice whispered in his ear: t 

“ Let us away, my friend,—there will be naught now 
but mounting of guards and dire confusion,—the King is 
as a lion roused, and will not cease growling till his ven¬ 
geance be satisfied! A plague on this shatter-pated Pro¬ 
phet!—he hath broken through my music, and jarred 
poesy into discord!—By the Sacred Veil!—Didst ever 
hear such a hideous clamor of contradictory tongues! . . 
all striving to explain what defies explanation, namely, 
Khosrurs flight, for which, after all, no one is to blame 
so much as Zephoranim himself,—but ’tis the privilege of 
monarclis to shift their own mistakes and follies on to the 
shoulders of their subjects! Come! Lysia awaits us, 
and will not easily pardon our tardy obedience to her 
isummons,—let us hence ere the gates of the palace close.” 

Lysia! . . The “unvirgined Virgin”—the “Queen 
Courtesan ”! So had said Khosrul. Nevertheless her 
name, like a silver clarion, made the heart of Theos bound 
with indescribable gladness and feverish expectation, and 
without an instant’s pause he readily yielded to Sah-luma’s 
guidance through the gorgeously colored confusion of the 
swaying crowd. Arm-in-arm, the twain,—one a poet re¬ 
nowned , the other a poet forgotten ,—threaded their rapid 
way between the ranks of nobles, officers, slaves, and 
court-lacqueys, who were all excitedly discussing the re¬ 
cent scare, the Prophet’s escape, and the dread wrath of 
the King,—and hurrying along the vast Hall of the Two 
Thousand Columns, they passed together out into 
night. 




ARDATH. 


Iflf 


CHAPTER XVII. 

A VIRGIN UNSHRINED. 

TTn***r the cloudless, star-patterned sky, in the soft, 
warm air that brimmed with the fragrance of roses, they 
drove once more together through the spacious streets of 
Al-Kyris—streets that were now nearly deserted save for 
a few late passers-by whose figures were almost as indis¬ 
tinct and rapid in motion as pale, flitting shadows. There 
was not a sign of storm in the lovely heavens, though now 
and again a sullen roll as of a distant cannonade hinted of 
pent-up anger lurking somewhere behind that clear and 
exquisitely dark-blue ether, in which a million worlds 
blazed luminously like pendulous drops of white fire, 
Sah-luma’s chariot whirled along with incredible swift¬ 
ness, the hoofs of the galloping horses occasionally strik¬ 
ing sparks of flame from the smooth mosaic-pictured 
pavement; but Theos now began to notice that there was 
a strange noiselessness in their movements—that the 
whole cortege appeared to be environed by a magic circle 
of silence—and that the very night itself seemed breath¬ 
lessly listening in entranced awe to some unlanguaged 
warning from the gods invisible. 

# Compared with the turbulence and terror just left be¬ 
hind at the King’s palace, this weird hush was uncom¬ 
fortably impressive, and gave a sense of fantastic 
unreality to the scene. The sleepy, mesmeric radiance 
of the full moon, shining on the delicate traceries of the 
quaintly sculptured houses on either hand, made them 
look brittle and evanescent; the great heavy, hanging 
orange-boughs and the feathery frondage of the tall palms 
seemed outlined in mere mist against the sky; and the 
glimpses caught from time to time of the broad and quietly 
flowing river were like so many flashes of light seen 
through a veil of cloud. Theos, standing beside his friend 
with one hand resting familiarly on his shoulder, dreamily 
admired the phantom-like beauty of the city thus transfig¬ 
ured in the moonbeams, and though he vaguely wondered 
a little at the deep, mysterious! stillness that everywhere 
prevailed, h@ ^Qiirdelv admitted fio himself that there wa$ 


ARDATH. 


173 


or could be anything unusual in it. He took his position 
as he found it—indeed he could not well do otherwise, 
since he felt his fate was ruled by some resolute, unseen 
force, against which all resistance would be unavailing. 
Moreover, his mind was now entirely possessed by the 
haunting vision of Lysia—a vision half-human, half-divine 
—a beautiful, magical, irresistible Sweetness that allured 
his soul, and roused within him a wordless passion of in¬ 
finite desire. 

He exchanged not a syllable with Sah-luma—an indefina¬ 
ble yet tacit understanding existed between them,—an 
intuitive foreknowledge and subtle perception of each 
other’s character, intentions, and aims, that for the mo¬ 
ment rendered speech unnecessary. And there was 
something, after all, in the profound silence of the night 
that, while strange, was also eloquent—eloquent of mean¬ 
ings, unutterable, such as lie hidden in the scented cups 
of flowers when lovers gather them on idle summer after¬ 
noons and weave them into posies for one another’s wear¬ 
ing. How fleetly the gilded, shell-shaped car sped on its 
way!—trees, houses, bridges, domes, and cupolas, seemed 
to fly past in a varied whirl of glistening color! Now 
and again a cluster of fire-flies broke from some thicket 
of shade and danced drowsily by in sparkling tangles of 
gold and green; here and there from great open squares 
and branch-shadowed gardens gleamed the stone face of 
an obelisk, or the white column of a fountain; while over 
all things streamed the long prismatic rays flung forth 
from the revolving lights in the Twelve Towers of the 
Sacred Temple, like flaming spears ranged lengthwise 
against the limitless depth of the midnight horizon. With 
straining necks, tossed manes, and foam flying from their 
nostrils, Sah-luma’s fiery coursers dashed onward at 
almost lightning speed, and the journey became a wild, 
headstrong rush through the dividing air—a rush toward 
some voluptuous end, dimly discerned, yet indefinite! 

At last they stopped. Before them rose a lofty build¬ 
ing, crested with fantastic pinnacles such as are formed 
by ice on the roof in times of intense cold; a great gate 
stood open, and pacing slowly up and down in front of it 
was a tall slave in white tunic and turban, who, turning 
his gleaming eyeballs on Sah-lhma, nodded by way of 
salutation, and then uttered a sharp, peculiar whistle. 
This summons brought out two curious, dwarfish figures 


174 


ARB ATM. 


of men, whose awkward misshapen limbs resembled the 
contorted branches of wind-blown trees, and whose coarse 
and repulsive countenances betokened that malignant 
delight in evil-doing which only demons are supposed to 
know. These ungainly servitors possessed themselves of 
the Laureate’s chafing steeds, and led them and the chariot 
away into some unseen court yard; while the Laureate 
himself, still saying no word, kept fast hold of his com¬ 
panion’s arm, and hurried him along a dark avenue over¬ 
shadowed with thick boughs that drooped heavily 
downward to the ground—a solitary place where the 
intense quiet was disturbed only by the occasional drip, 
drip of dewy moisture trickling tearfully from the leaves, 
or the sweet, faint, gurgling sound of fountains plaving 
somewhere in the distance. 

On they went for several paces, till at a sharp bend in 
the moss-grown path, an amethystine light broke full 
between the arched green branches ; directly in front of 
them glimmered a broad piece of water, and out of the 
purple-tinted depths rose the white, nude, lovely form of a 
woman, whose rounded, outstretched arms appeared to 
beckon them, . . . -whose mouth smiled in mingled malice 
and sweetness, . . . and round whose looped-up tresses 
sparkled a diadem of sapphire flame. With a cry of 
astonishment and ecstacy Theos sprang forward: 8ah- 
l&ma held him back in laughing remonstrance. 

“ Wilt drown for a statue’s sake ? ” he inquired mirth¬ 
fully. “ By my soul, good Theos, if thy wits thus wander 
at sight of a witching, marble nymph illumed by electric 
glamours, what will become of thee when thou art face to 
face with living, breathing loveliness! Come, thou hot¬ 
headed neophyte! thou shalt not waste thy passion on 
images of stone, I warrant the®! Come ! ” 

But Theos stood still. His eyes roved from Sah-luina 
to the glittering statue and from the statue back again to 
Sah-luma in mingled doubt and dread. A vague forebod¬ 
ing filled his mind, lie fancied that a bevy of mocking 
devils peered at him from out the wooded labyrinth, . . . 
and that Sin was the name of the white siren yonder, 
whose delicate body seemed to palpitate with every slow 
ripple of the surrounding -waters. He hesitated,—with 
that often saving hesitation a noble spirit may feel ere 
willfully yielding to what it instinctively knows to be 
wrong,—and for the briefest possible space an impercep- 


ABDATH. 


175 


tible line was drawn between his own self-consciousness 
and the fascinating personality of his lately found friend 
—a line that parted them asunder as though by a gulf of 
centuries. 

“ Sah-luma,” he said in a tremulous, low tone, “tell me 
truly,—is it good for us to be here ? ” 

Sah-luma regarded him in wide-eyed amazement. 

“Good? good?” he repeated with a sort of impatient 
disdain. “ What dost thou mean by ‘ good ’ ? What is 
good ? What is evil ? Canst thou tell ? If so, thou art 
wiser than I! Good to be here ? If it is good to drown 
remembrance of the world in draughts of pleasure; if it is 
good to love and be beloved ; if it is good to enjoy, aye! 
enjoy with* burning zest every pulsation of the blood and 
every beat of the heart, and to feel that life i3 a fiery 
delight, an exquisite dream of drained-off rapture, then it 
is good to be here! If,” and he caught Theos’s hand in 
his own warm palm and pressed it, while his voice sank 
to a soft and infinitely caressing sweetness, “ if it is good 
to climb the dizzy heights of joy and drowse in the deep 
sunshine of amorous eyes, ... to slip away on elfin 
wings into the limitless freedom of Love’s summer- 
land, .... to rifle rich kisses from warm lips even as 
rosebuds are rifled from the parent rose, and to forget! . . 
—to forget all bitter things that are best forgotten-” 

“ Enough, enough ! ” cried Theos, fired with a reckless 
impulse of passionate ardor. “On, on, Sah-luma! I 
follow thee! On! let us delay no more! ” 

At that moment a far-off strain of music saluted his 
ears—music evidently played on stringed instruments. It 
was accompanied by a ringing clash of cymbals; he 
listened, and listening, saw a smile lighten Sah-luraa’s 
features—a smile sweet, yet full of delicate mockery. 
Their eyes met; a wanton impetuosity flashed like reflected 
flame from one face to the other, and then, without another 
instant’s pause, they hurried on. 

Across a broad, rose-marbled terrace garlanded with a 

golden wealth of orange-trees and odorous oleanders. 

under a trellis-work covered with‘magnolias whose half¬ 
shut, ivory-tinted buds glistened in the moonlight like 
large suspended pearls, . . . then through a low-roofed 
stone-corridor, close and dim, lit only by a few flickering 
oil-lamps placed at far intervals, . . . then on they went, 
till at last, ascending three red granite steps on which 



176 


ARDATH. 


were carved some curious hierogylphs, they plunged into 
what seemed to be a vast jungle enclosed in some dense 
tropical forest. What a strange, unsightly thicket of rank 
verdure was here, thought Tlieos ! ... it was as though 
Nature, grown tired of floral beauty, had, in a sudden 
malevolent mood, purposely torn and blurred the fair 
green frondage and twisted every bud awry! Great, 
jagged leaves covered with prickles and stained all over 
with blotches as of spilt poison, .... thick brown stems 
glistening with slimy moisture and coiled up like the 
sleeping bodies of snakes, .... masses of purple and 
blue fungi, . . and blossoms seemingly of the orchid 
species, some like fleshy tongues, others like the waxen 
yellow fingers of a dead hand, protruded spectrally through 
the matted foliage,—while all manner of strange, over¬ 
powering odors increased the swooning oppressiveness of 
the sultry, languorous air. 

This uncouth botanical garden was apparently roofed in 
by a lofty glass dome, decorated with hangings of watery- 
green silk, but the grotesque trees and plants grew to 
so enormous a height that it was impossible to tell which 
were the falling draperies and which the straggling leaves. 
Curious birds flew hither and thither, voiceless creatures, 
scarlet and amber winged; a huge gilded brazier stood in 
one corner from whence ascended the constant smoke of 
burning incense, and there were rose-shaded lamps all 
about, that shed a subdued mysterious lustre on the scene, 
and bestowed a pale glitter on a few fantastic clumps of 
arums and nodding lotus-flowers that lazily lifted them¬ 
selves out of a greenish pool of stagnant water sunk 
deeply in on one side of the marble flooring. Tlieos, hold¬ 
ing Sah-luma’s arm, stepped eagerly across the threshold; 
he was brimful of expectation: . . and what mattered it 
to him whether the weed-like things that grew in this 
strange pavilion were pure or poisonous, provided he 
might look once more upon the witching face that long 

ago had so sweetly enticed him to his ruin!. 

Stay! what was he thinking of? Long ago? Nay, that 
was impossible,—since he had only seen the Priestess 
Lysia for the first time that very morning! IIow piteously 
perplexing it was to be thus tormented with these indis¬ 
tinct ideas!—these half-formed notions of previous in¬ 
timate acquaintance with persons and places he never 
could have known before! 



ARDATB. 


177 

\ 

All at once he drew back with a startled exclamation ; 
an enormous tigress, sleek and jewel-eyed, bounded up 
from beneath a tangled mass of red and yellow creepers 
and advanced toward him with a low savage snarl. 

“ Peace, Aizif, peace; ” said Sah-luma, carelessly pat¬ 
ting* the animal’s head. “ Thou art wont to be wiser in 
distinguishing ’twixt thy friends and foes.” Then turn¬ 
ing to Theos he added—“ She is harmless as a kitten, this 
poor Aizif! Call her, good Theos, she will come to thy 
hand—see! ” and he smiled, as Theos, not to be outdone ■ 
by his companion in physical courage, bent forward and 
stroked the cruel-looking beast, who, while submitting to 
his caress, never for a moment ceased her smothered 
snarling. Presntly, however, she was seized with a sud¬ 
den fit of savage playfulness,—and throwing herself 
on the ground before him, she rolled her lithe body to and 
fro with brief thirsty roars of satisfaction, .... roars 
that echoed through the whole pavilion with terrific 
resonance: then rising, she shook herself vigorously and 
commenced a stealthy, velvet-footed pacing up and down, 
lashing her tail from side to side, and keeping those sly, 
emerald-like eyes of hers watchfully fixed on Sah-luma, 
who merely laughed at her fierce antics. Leaning against 
one of the dark, gnarled trees, he tapped his sandaled foot 
with some impatience on the marble pavement, while 
Theos, standing close beside him, wondered whether the 
mysterious Lysia knew of their arrival. 

Sah-luma appeared to guess his thoughts, for he an¬ 
swered them as though they had been spoken aloud. 

“ Yes,” he said, “ she knows we are here—she knew 
the instant we entered her gates. Nothing is or can be 
hidden from her! He who would have secrets must depart 
out of Al-Kyris and find some other city to dwell in, . . 
for here he shall be unable to keep even his own counsel. 
To Lysia all things are made manifest; she reads human 
nature as one reads an open scroll, and with merciless 
analysis she judges men as being very poor creatures, 
limited in their capabilities, disappointing and monotonous 
in their passions, unproductive and circumscribed in their 
destinies. To her ironical humor and icy wit the wisest 
sages seem fools; she probes them to the core, and 
discovers all their weaknesses ; . . she has no trust in 
virtue, no belief in honesty. And she is right! Who 
but a madman would be honest in these days of competi- 
12 - _ 


178 


AEDATRr 


tion and greed of gain ? And as for virtue, ’tis a pretty 
icicle that melts at the first touch of a hot temptation ! 
Aye ! the Virgin Priestess of Nag&ya hath a most pro¬ 
found comprehension of mankind’s immeasurable brute 
stupidity ; and, strong in this knowledge, she governs the 
multitude with iron will, intellectual force, and dictative 
firmness : . when she dies I know not what will happen.” 

Here he interrupted himself, and a dark shadow crossed 
his brows. “ By my soul! ” he muttered, “ how this 
thought of death haunts me like the unburied corpse of 
a slain foe ! I would there were no such thing as Death; 
’tis a cruel and wanton sport of the gods to give us life 
at all if life must end so utterly and so soon! ” 

He sighed deeply. Theos echoed the sigh, but an¬ 
swered nothing. At that moment the restless Aizif gave 
another appalling roar, and pounced swiftly toward the 
eastern side of the pavilion, where a large painted panel 
could be dimly discerned, the subject of the painting be¬ 
ing a hideous idol, whose long, half-shut, inscrutable eyes 
leered through the surrounding foliage with an expres¬ 
sion of hateful cunning and malevolence. In front of tins 
panel the tigress lay down, licking the pavement thirsti) y 
from time to time and giving vent to short purring 
sounds of impatience : . . then all suddenly she rose with 
ears pricked, in an attitude of attention. The panel 
slowly moved, it glided back,—and the great brute leaped 
forward, flinging her two soft paws on the shoulders of 
the figure that appeared—the figure of a woman, who, 
clad in glistening gold from head to foot, shone in the 
dark aperture like a gilded image in a shrine of ebony. 
Theos beheld the brilliant apparition in some doubt and 
wonder. Was this Lysia? He could not see her face, 
as she wore a thick white veil through which only the 
faintest sparkle of dark eyes glimmered like flickering 
sunbeams; nor was he able to discern the actual outline 
of her form, a3 it was completely enveloped and lost in 
the wide, shapeless folds of her stiff, golden gown. Yet 
every nerve in his body thrilled at her presence! . . . 
every drop of blood seemed to rush from his heart to his 
brain in a swift, scorching torrent that for a second 
blinded his eyes with a red glare and made him faint and 
giddy. 

Woman and tigress! They looked strangely alike, he 
thought, as they stood mutually caressing each other 


ARDATB. 


179 


under the great drooping masses of fantastic leaves. Yet 
where was the resemblance ? What possible similarity 
could there be between a tawny, treacherous brute of the 
forests, full of sly malice and voracious cruelty, and that 
dazzling, gold-garmented creature, whose small white 
hand, flashing with jewels, now tenderly smoothed the 
black, silken stripes on the sleek coat of her savage 
favorite ? 

“ Down, sweet Aizif, down! ” she said, in a grave, dulcet 
voice as softly languorous as the last note of a love-song. 
“ Down, my gentle one ! thou art too fond, down ! so ! ” 
this as the tigress instantly removed its embracing paws 
from her neck, and, trembling in every limb, crouched on 
the ground in abjectly submissive obedience. Another 
moment, and she advanced leisurely into the pavilion, 
Aizif slinking stealthily along beside her and seeming to 
imitate her graceful gliding movements, till she stood 
within a few paces of Theos and Sah-luma, just near the 
spot where the lotus-flowers swayed over the grass-green, 
stagnant pool. There she paused, and apparently scru¬ 
tinized her visitors intently through the folds of her 
snowy veil. Sah-lbma bent his head before her in a half 
haughty, half humule salutation. 

“ The tardy Sah-luma ! ” she said, with an undercurrent 
of laughter in her musical tones, “ the poet who loves the 
flattery of a foolish king, and the applause of a still more 
foolish court! And so Khosrul disturbed the flood of 
thine inspiration to-night, good minstrel? Nay, for 
that he should die, if for no other crime! And this,” 
here she turned her veiled features toward Theos, 
whose heart beat furiously as he caught a luminous flash 
from those half-hidden, brilliant eyes, “ this is the unwit¬ 
ting stranger who honored me by so daring a scrutiny 
this morning! Yerily, thou hast a singularly venture¬ 
some spirit of thine own, fair sir! Still, we must honor 
courage, even though it border on rashness, and I rejoice 
to see that the wrathful mob of Al-Kyris hath yet left 
thee man enough to deserve my welcome! Nevertheless 
thou were guilty of most heinous presumption! ” Here 
she extended her jewelled hand. “Art thou repentant? 
and wilt thou sue for pardon ? ” 

Scarcely conscious of what he did, Theos approached 
her, and kneeling on one knee took that fair, soft hand in 
his own and kissed it with passionate fervor. 


180 


ABBA TH. 


“ Criminal as I am,” he murmured tremulously, “ I glory 
in my crime, nor will I seek forgiveness ? Nay, rather 
will I plead with thee that I may sin so sweet a sin again, 
and blind myself with beauty unreproved! ” 

Slowly she withdrew her fingers from his clasp. 

“ Thou art bold! ” she said, with a touch of indolent 
amusement in her accents. “But in thy boldness there 
is something of the hero. Knowest thou not that I, Lysia, 
High Priestess of Nagaya, could have thee straightway 
slain for that unwise speech of thine ?—unwise because 
over-hasty and somewhat over-familiar. Yes, I could 
have thee slain! ” and she laughed,—a rippling little 
laugh like that of a pleased child. “Howbeit thou shalt 
not die this time for thy foolhardiness—thy looks are too 
much in thy favor! Thou art like Sah-luma in his 
noblest moods, when tired of verse-stringing and sonnet- 
chanting he condescends to remember that he is not quite 
divine! See how he chafes at that!” and plucking a 
lotus-bud she threw it playfully at the Laureate, whose 
handsome face flushed vexedly at her words. “ And thou 
art prudent, Sir Theos—do I not pronounce thy name 
aptly ?—thou wilt be less petulant than he, and less ab¬ 
sorbed in self-adoration, for here men—even poets—are 
deemed no more than men, and their constant querulous 
claim to be considered as demi-gods meets with no accept¬ 
ance ! Wilt ‘ blind thyself with beauty ’ as thou say’st ? 
Well then, lose thine eyes, but guard thy heart! ” 

And with a careless movement she loosened her veil; 
it fell from her like a soft cloud, and Theos, springing to 
his feet, gazed upon her with a sense of enraptured be¬ 
wilderment and passionate pain. It was as though he 
saw the wraith of some fair, dead woman he had loved of 
old, risen anew to redemand from him his former alle¬ 
giance. O, unfamiliar yet well-known face! . . . O, slum¬ 
brous, starry eyes that seemed to hold the memory 
of a thousand love-thoughts! . . . O, sweet curved lips 
whereon a delicious smile rested as softly as sunlight ou 
young rose-petals! Where, . . . where, in God’s name, 
had he seen all this marvelous, witching, maddening 
loveliness before? His heart beat with heavy, laboring 
thuds, . . . 'his brain reeled, .... a dim, golden, suf¬ 
fused radiance seemed to hover like an aureole above that 
dazzling white brow, adorned with a clustering wealth of 
raven-black tresses, whose massive coils were crowned 


A EDA TIL 


181 

with the strangest sort of diadem—a wreath of small 
serpents’ heads cunningly fashioned in rubies and rose 
brilliants, and set in such a manner that they appeared 
to lift themselves erect from out the dusky hair as though 
in darting readiness to sting. Full of a vague, wild long¬ 
ing, he instinctively stretched out his arms, . . then on 
a sudden impulse turned swiftly away, in a dizzy effort 
to escape from the basilisk fire-gleam of those sombre, 
haunting eyes that plunged into his inmost soul, and 
there aroused such dark desires, such retrospective evil, 
such wild weakness as shamed the betterness of his nat¬ 
ure ! Sah-luma’s clear, mocking laugh just then rang 
sharply through the perfumed stillness. 

“ Thou mad Theos! Whither art thou bound ? ” cried 
the Laureate mirthfully. “ Wilt leave our noble hostess 
ere the entertainment has begun ? Ungallant barbarian! 
What frenzy possesses thee ? ” 

These words recalled him to himself. lie came back 
slowly step by step, and with bowed head, to where Lysia 
stood—Lysia, whose penetrating gaze still rested upon 
him with strangely fixed intensity. 

“ Forgive me,” he said, in a low, unsteady voice that 
to his own ears sounded full of suppressed yet passionate 
appeal. “ Forgive me, lady, that for one moment I have 
seemed discourteous. I am not so, in very truth. Sad fan¬ 
cies fret my brain at times, and—and there is that within 
thine unveiled beauty which sword-like wounds my soul! 
I am not joyous natured : . . . unlike Sah-luma, chosen 
favorite of fortune, I have lost all, all that made my life 
once seem fair. I am dead to those that loved me, . . . 
forgotten by those that honored me, ... a wanderer in 
strange lands, a solitary wayfarer perplexed with many 
griefs to which I cannot give a name! Nevertheless,” 
and he drew a quick, hard breath, •“ if 1 may serve thee, 
fairest Lysia,—as Sah-luma serves thee, —subject to thy 
sovereign favor,—thou shalt not find me lacking in obedi¬ 
ence! Command me as thou wilt; let me efface myself 
to worship thee! Let me, if it b© possible, drown thought, 
—slay memory,—murder conscience,—so that I may once 
more, as in the old time, be glad with the gladness that 
only love can give and only death can take away! ” 

As he finished this unpremeditated, uncontrollable out¬ 
burst his eyes wistfully sought hers. She met his look 
with a languid indifference and a half-disdainful smile, 


182 


ARDATH. 


“Enough! restrain thine ardor!” she said coldly, her 
dark dilating orbs shining like steel beneath the velvet 
softness of her long lashes. “ Thou dost speak ignorantly, 
unknowing what thy words involve—words to which I 
well might bind thee, were I less forbearing to thine in¬ 
considerate rashness. How like all men thou art! How 
keen to plunge into unfathomed deeps, merely to snatch 
the pearl of present pleasure ! IIow martyr-seeming in 
thy fancied sufferings, as though thy little wave of per¬ 
sonal sorrow swamped the world! O wondrous human 
Egotism! that sees but one great absolute 4 1 ’ scrawled 
on the face of Nature ! 4 1 5 am afflicted, let none dare to 

rejoice! ‘ I ’ would be glad, let none presume to grieve! ” 

.She laughed, a little low laugh of icy satire, 

and then resumed: 44 1 thank thee for thy proffered serv¬ 

ice, sir stranger, albeit I need it not,—nor do I care to 
claim it at thy hands. Thou art my guest—no more! 
Whether thou wilt hereafter deserve to be enrolled my 
bondsman depends upon thy prowess and—my humor ! ” 

Her beautiful eyes flashed scornfully, and there was 
something cruel in her glance. Theos felt it sting him 
like a sharp blow. His nerves quivered,—his spirit rose 
in arms against the cynical hauteur of this woman whom 
he loved; yes,— loved , with a curious sense of revived 
passion—passion that seemed to have slept in a tomb for 
ages, and that now suddenly sprang into life and being, 
like a fire kindled anew on dead ashes! 

Acting on a sudden proud impulse he raised his head 
and looked at her with a bold steadfastness,—a critical 
scrutiny,—a calmly discriminating valuation of her phys¬ 
ical charms that for the moment certainly appeared to 
startle her self-possession, for a deep flush colored the 
fairness of her face and then faded, leaving her pale as 
marble^ Her emotion, whatever it was, lasted but a 
second,—yet in that second he had measured his mental 
strength against hers, and had become aware of his own 
supremacy ! This consciousness filled him with peculiar 
satisfaction. He drew a long breath like one narrowly 
escaped from close peril. He had now no fear of her— 
only a great, all-absorbing, all-evil love, and to that he 
was recklessly content to yield. Her eyes dwelt glitter- 
ingiy first upon him and then onSahduma, as the eyes of 
a falooh dwell on its prey, and her smile was touched 
|fith a little malice, as she said, addressing them both; 



A8DATH. 


183 


“ Come, fair sirs! we will not linger in this wilderness 
of wild flowers. A feast awaits us yonder—a feast pre¬ 
pared for those who, like yourselves, obey the creed of 
sweet self-indulgence, . . the world-wide creed wherein 
men find no fault, no shadow of inconsistency l The 
truest wisdom is to enjoy,—the only philosophy that 
which teaches us how best to gratify our own desires! 
Delight cannot satiate the soul, nor mirth engender weari¬ 
ness ! Follow me!—” and with a lithe movement she 
swept toward the door, her pet tigress creeping closely 
after her; then suddenly looking back she darted a lus¬ 
trously caressing glance over her shoulder at Sah-luma 
and stretched out her hand. He at once caught it in his 
own and kissed it with an almost brusque eagerness. 

“I thought you had forgotten me! ” he murmured in a 
vexed, half-reproachful tone. 

“ Forgotten you ? Forgotten Sah-luma ? Impossible! ” 
and her silvery laughter shook the air into little throbs 
of music. “ When the greatest poet of the age is forgot¬ 
ten, then fall Al-Kyris! . . . for there shall be no more 
need of kingdoms! ” 

Laughing still and allowing her hand to remain in his, 
she passed out of the pavilion, and Theos followed them 
both as a man might follow the beckoning sylphs in a 
fairy dream. 

A mellow, luminous, witch-like radiance seemed to sur¬ 
round them as they went—two dazzling figures gliding 
on before him with the slow, light grace of moonbeams 
flitting over a smooth ocean. They seemed made for each 
other, .... he could not separate them in his thoughts ; 
but the strangest part of the matter was the feeling he 
had, that he himself somehow belonged to them and they 
to him. His ideas on the subject, however, were very 
indefinite; he was in a condition of more or less absolute 
passiveness, save when strong shudders of grief, memory, 
remorse or roused passion shook him with sudden fore© 
like a storm-blast shaking some melancholy cypress whose 
roots are in the grave. He mused on Lysia’s scornful 
words with a perplexed pain. Was he then so selfish? 
“ The one great absolute 4 1 ’ scrawled on the face of 
Nature! ” Could that apply to him ? Surely not! sine© 
in his present state of mind he could hardly lay claim to 
any distinct personality, seeing that that personality was 
forever merging itself and getting lost in the more clearly 


184 


ABDATB. 


perfect identity of Sah-luma, whom he regarded with & 
species of profound hero-worship such as one man seldom 
feels for another. To call himself a Poet now seemed the 
acme of absurdity; how should such an one as he attempt 
to conquer fame with a rival like Sah-luma already in the 
field and already supremely victorious ? 

Full of these fancies, he scarcely heeded the wonders 
through which he passed, as he followed his two radiant 
guides along. His eyes were tired, and rested almost in¬ 
differently on the magnificence that everywhere sur¬ 
rounded him, though here and there certain objects 
attracted his attention as being curiously familiar. These 
lofty corridors, gorgeously frescoed, . . . these splendid 
groups of statuary, .... these palm-shaded nooks oi 
verdure where imprisoned nightingales warbled plaintive 
songs that were all the sweeter for their sadness, .... 
these spacious marble loggias cooled by the rising and 
falling spray of myriad fountains—did he not dimly rec¬ 
ognize all these things ? He thought so, yet was not sure, 
—for he had arrived at a pass when he could neither rely 
on his reason nor his memory. Naught of deeper humil¬ 
iation could he have than this, to feel within himself that 
he was still an intellectual , thinking , sentient human being , 
and that yet at the same time, his intelligence could do 
nothing to extricate him from the terrific mystery which 
had engulfed him like a huge flood, and wherein he was 
now tossed to and fro as helplessly as a floating straw. 

On, still on he went, treading closely in Sah-luma’s 
footsteps and wistfully noting how often the myrtle-gar¬ 
landed head of his friend drooped caressingly toward 
Lysia’s dusky perfumed locks, whence those jewelled ser¬ 
pents’ fangs darted flashingly upward like light from 
darkness. On, still on, till at last he found himself in a 
grand vestibule, built entirely of sparkling red granite. 
Here were ten sphinxes, so huge in form that a dozen 
men might have lounged at ease on each one of their enor¬ 
mous paws; they were ranged in rows of five on each 
side, and their coldly meditative eyes appeared to dwell 
steadfastly on the polished face of a large black Disc 
placed conspicuously on a pedestal in the exact centre of 
the pavement. Strange letters shone from time to time 
on this ebony tablet, .... letters that seemed to be 
written in quicksilver; they glittered for a second, then 
ran off like phosphorescent drops of water, and again re- 


AEDATIL 


185 


appeared, but the same signs were never repeated twice 
over. All were different, .... all were rapid in their 
coming and going as flashes of lightning. Lysia, ap¬ 
proaching the Disc, turned it slightly; at her touch it 
revolved like a flying wheel, and for a brief space was 
literally covered with mysterious characters, which the 
beautiful Priestess perused with an apparent air of sat¬ 
isfaction^ All at once the fiery writing vanished, the Disc 
was left black and bare,—and then a silver ball fell sud¬ 
denly upon it, with a clang, from some unseen height, 
and rolling off again instantly disappeared. At the same 
moment a harsh voice, rising as it were from the deepest 
underground, chanted the following words in a monoto¬ 
nous recitative: 

“ Fall, O thou lost Hour, into the dreadful Past! Sink, 
O thou Pearl of Time, into the dark and fathomless abyss! 
Hot all the glory of kings or the wealth of empires can 
purchase thee back again ! Hot all the strength of war¬ 
riors or the wisdom of sages can draw thee forth from the 
Abode of Silence whither thou art fled! Farewell, lost 
Hour!—and may the gods defend us from thy reproach at 
the Day of Doom ! In the name of the Sun and Hagaya, 
.... Peace! ” 

The voice died away in a muffled echo, and the slow, 
solemn boom of a brazen-tongued bell struck midnight. 
Then Theos, raising his eyes, saw that all further progress 
was impeded by a great wall of solid rock that glistened 
at every point with flashes of pale and dark violet light— 
a wall composed entirely of adamantine spar, crusted 
thick with the rough growth of oriental amethyst. It 
rose sheer up from the ground to an altitude of about a 
hundred feet, and apparently closed in and completed the 
vestibule. 

Surely there was no passing through such a barrier as 

this ?.he thought wonderingly; nevertheless 

Lysia and Sah-ltima still went on, and he—as perforce he 
was compelled—still followed. Arrived at the foot of the 
huge erection that towered above him like a steep cliff of 
molten gems, he fancied he heard a faint sound behind it 
as of clinking glasses and boisterous laughter, but before 
he had time to consider what this might mean, Lysia laid 
her hand lightly on a small, protruding knob of crystal, 

pressed it, and" lo!.the whole massive structure 

yawned open suddenly without any noise, suspending 




186 


ZiRDATIL 


itself as it were in sparkling festoons of purple stalactites 
over the voluptuously magnificent scene disclosed. 

At first it was difficult to discern more than a gorgeous 
maze of swaying light and color as though a great field of 
tulips in full bloom should be seen waving to and fro in 
the breath of a soft wind; but gradually this bewildering 
dazzle of gold and green, violet and crimson, resolved 
itself into definite form and substance; and Theos, stand¬ 
ing beside his two companions on the elevated threshold 
of the partition through which they had entered, was able 
to look down and survey with tolerable composure the 
wondrous details of the glittering picture—a picture that 
looked like a fairy-fantasy poised in a haze of jewel-like 
radiance as of vaporized sapphire. 

He saw beneath him a vast circular hall or amphi¬ 
theatre, roofed in by a lofty dome of richest malachite, 
from the centre of wliich was suspended a huge globe of 
fire, that revolved with incredible swiftness, flinging vivid, 
blood-red rays on the amber-colored silken carpets and 
embroideries that strewed the floor below. The dome 
was supported by rows upon rows of tall, tapering crystal 
columns, clear as translucent water and green as the grass 
in spring, . . and between and beyond these columns on 
the left-hand side there were large, oval-shaped case¬ 
ments set wide open to the night, through which the gleam 
of a broad lake laden with water-lilies could be seen shim¬ 
mering in the yellow moon. The middle of the hall was 
occupied by a round table covered with draperies of gold, 
white, and green, and heaped with all the costly acces¬ 
sories of a sumptuous banquet such as might have been 
spread before the gods of Olympus in the full height of 
their legendary prime. Here were the lovely hues of 
heaped-up fruit,—the tender bloom of scattered flowers, 
—the glisten of jewelled flagons and goblets, the flash of 
massive golden dishes carried aloft by black slaves attired 
in white and crimson,—the red glow of poured-out wine ; 
and here, in the drowsy warmth, lounging on divans of 
velvet and embroidered satin, eating, drinking, idly gossip¬ 
ing, loudly laughing, and occasionally bursting into wild 
snatches of song, were a company of brilliant-looking per¬ 
sonages,—all men, all young, all handsome, all richly 
clad, and all evidently bent on enjoying the pleasures 
offered by the immediate hour. Suddenly, however, their 
noisy voices ceased—with one accord, as though drawn 


ARDATB. 


187 

by some magnetic spell, they all turned their heads toward 
the platform where Lysia had just silently made her 
appearance,—and springing from their seats they broke 
into a boisterous shout of acclamation and welcome. One 
young man whose flushed face had all the joyous, wanton, 
effeminate beauty of a pictured Dionysius, reeled forward, 
goblet in hand, and tossing the wine in air so that it 
splashed down again at his feet, staining his white gar¬ 
ments as it fell with a stain as of blood, he cried, tipsily: 

“ All hail, Lysia! Where hast thou wandered so long, 
tliou Goddess of Morn ? We have been lost in the black¬ 
ness of night, sunk in the depths of a hell-like gloom—but 
lo ! now the clouds have broken in the east, and our hearts 
rejoice at the birth of day ! Vanish, dull moon, and be 
ashamed! ... for a fairer planet rules the sky ! Hence, 
ye stars! . . . puny glow-worms lazily crawling in the 
fields of ether! Lysia invests the heaven and earth, and 
in her smile we live! Ha! art thou there, Sah-lfima? 
Come, praise me for my improvised love-lines ; they are 
as good as thine, I warrant thee! Canst compose when 
thou art drunk, my dainty Laureate? Drain a cup then, 
and string me a stanza! Where is thy fool Zeb&stes ? I 
would fain tickle his long ears with ribald rhyme, and 
hearken to the barbarous braying forth of his asinine re¬ 
flections ! Lysia! what, Lysia!.dost thou frown 

at me ? Frown not, sweet queen, but rather laugh! . . . 
thy laughter kills, ’tis true, but thy frown doth torture 
spirits after death! Unbend thy brows! Night looms 
between them like a chaos ! . . we will have no more 
night, I say, but only noon! . . . a long, languorous, 
lovely noon, flower-girdled and sunbeam-clad! 

“ ‘ With roses, roses, roses crown my head, 

For my days are few ! 

And remember, sweet, when I am dead, 

That my heart was true ! ’ ” 

i Singing unsteadily, with the empty goblet upside-down 
!in his hand, he looked up laughing,—his bright eyes 
flashing with a wild feverish fire, his fair hair Wsed 
back from his brows and entangled in a half-crushed 
wreath of vine-leaves,—his rich garments disordered, his 
whole demeanor that of one possessed by a semi-delirium 

of sensuous pleasure.when all at once, meeting 

Lysia’s keen glance, he started as though he had been sucl- 



188 


ARDATH. 


denly stabbed,—the goblet fell from his clasp, and a visible 
shudder ran through his strong, supple frame. The low, 
cold, merciless laughter of the beautiful Priestess cut 
through the air hissingly like the sweep of a scimetar. 

“ Thou art wondrous merry, Nir-jalis,” she said, in lan¬ 
guid, lazily enunciated accents. “ Knowest thou not that 
too much mirth engenders weeping, and that excessive 
rejoicing hath its fitting end in grievous lamentation ? 
Kay, even now already thou lookest more sadly! What 
sombre cloud has crossed thy wine-hued heaven? Be 
happy while thou mayest, good fool! . . . I blame thee 
not! Sooner or later all things must end! ... in the 
mean time, make thou the most of life while life remains; 
’tis at its best an uncertain heritage, that once rashly 
squandered can never be restored,—either here or here¬ 
after.” 

The words were gently, almost tenderly, spoken; but 
Nir-jalis hearing them, grew white as death—his smile 
faded, leaving his lips set and stem as the lips of a marble 
mask. Stooping, he raised his fallen goblet and held it 
out almost mechanically to a passing slave, who re-filled 
it with wine, which he drank off thirstily at a draught, 
though the generous liquid brought no color back to his 
drawn and ashy features. 

Lysia paid no further heed to his evident discomfiture; 
bidding Sah-lhma and Theos follow her, she descended 
the few steps that led from the raised platform into the 
body of the brilliant hall; the rocky screen of amethyst 
closed behind her as noiselessly as it had opened, and in 
another moment she stood among her assembled guests, 
who at once surrounded her with eager salutations and 
gracefully worded flatteries. Smiling on them all with 
that strange smile of hers that was more scorn¬ 
ful than sweet, and yet so infinitely bewitching, 
she said little in answer to their greetings, . . she 
moved as a queen moves through a crowd of courtiers, 
the varied light of crimson and green playing about 
her like so many sparkles of living flame, . . . her dark 
head, wreathed with those jewelled serpents, lifting itself 
itself proudly erect from her muffling golden mantle, and 
her eyes shining with that frosty gleam of mockery which 
made them look so lustrous yet so cold. And now Theos 
perceived that at one end of the splendid banquet table a 
dais was erected, draped richly in carnation-colored silk, 


ARDATU. 


189 


and that on this dais a throne was placed—a throne com¬ 
posed entirely of black crystals, whose needle-like points 
sparkled with a dark flash as of bayonets seen through the 
smoke of battle. It was cushioned in black velvet, and 
above it was a bent arch of ivory on which glittered a 
twisted snake of clustered emeralds. 

With that slow, superb ease that distinguished all her 
actions, Lysia, attended closely by her tigress, mounted 
the dais,—and as she did so a loud clash of brazen bells 
rang out from some invisible turret beyond the summit 
of the great done. At the sound of the jangling chime 
four negresses appeared—goblin creatures that looked as 
though they had suddenly sprung from some sooty, sub¬ 
terranean region of gnomes—and humbly prostrating 
themselves before Lysia, kissed the ground at her feet. 
This done, they rose, and began to undo the fastenings of 
her golden, domino-like garment; but either they were 
slow, or the fair priestess was impatient for she suddenly 
shook herself free of their hands, and, loosening the gor¬ 
geous mantle herself from its jewelled clasps, it fell slowly 
from her symmetrical form on the nerfumed floor with a 
rustle as of falling leaves. 

A sigh quivered audibly through the room—whether of 
grief, joy, hope, relief, or despair it was difficult to tell. 
The pride and peril of a matchless loveliness was revealed 
in all its fatal seductiveness and invincible strength—the 
irresistible perfection of woman’s beauty was openly dis¬ 
played to bewilder the sight and rouse the reckless pas¬ 
sions of man! Who could look on such delicate, danger¬ 
ous, witching charms unmoved ? Who could gaze on the ex¬ 
quisite outlines of a form fairer than that of any sculptured 
Venus and refuse to acknowledge its powerfully sweet 
attraction ? 

The Virgin Priestess of the Sun had stepped out of her 
shrine; ... no longer a creature removed, impersonal, 
and sacred, she had become most absolutely human. 
Moreover, she might now have been taken for a bacchante, 
a dancer, or any other unsexed example of womanhood 
inasmuch as witli her golden mantle she had thrown off 
all disguise of modesty. Her beautiful limbs, rounded and 
smooth as pearl, could be plainly discerned through the 
filmy garb of silvery tissue that clung like a pale mist 
about the voluptuous curves of her figure and floated be¬ 
hind her in shining gossamer folds; her dazzling whits 


190 


ARDATI1. 


neck and arms were bare; and from slim wrist to snowy 
shoulder, little twining diamond snakes glistened in close 
coils against the velvety fairness of her flesh. A silver 
serpent with a head of sapphires girdled her waist, and 
just above the full wave of her bosom, that rose and fell 
visibly beneath the transparent gathers of her gauzy drap¬ 
ery, shone a large, fiery jewel, fashioned in the semblance 
of a human Eye. This singular ornament was so life-like 
as to be absolutely repulsive, and as it moved to and fro 
with its wearer’s breathing it seemed now to stare aghast, 
—anon to flash wickedly as with a thought of evil,—while 
more often still it assumed a restlessly watchful expression 
as though it were the eye of a fiend-inquisitor intent on the 
detection of some secret treachery. Poised between those 
fair white breasts it glared forth a glittering Menace ; . . 
a warning of unimaginable horror; and Theos, gazing at 
it fixedly, felt a curious thrill run through him, as if, so to 
speak, a hook of steel had been suddenly thrust into his 
quivering veins to draw him steadily and securely on to¬ 
ward some pitfall of unknown tortures. Then he remem¬ 
bered what Sah-lflma had said about the “ all-reflecting 
Eye, the weird mirror and potent dazzler of human 
sight,” and wondered whether its mystical properties 
were such as to compel men to involuntarily declare their 
inmost thoughts,—for it seemed to him that its sinister 
glow penetrated into the very deepest recesses of his 
mind, and there discovered all the hidden weaknesses, 
follies, and passions of the worst side of his nature! 

He trembled and grew faint,—his dazed eyes wandered 
over the dainty grace and marvel of Lysia’s almost un¬ 
clad loveliness with mingled emotions of allurement and re¬ 
pugnance. Fascinated, yet at the same time repelled, his 
soul yearned toward her as the soul of the knight in the 
Lore-lei legend yearned toward the singing Rhine-siren, 
whose embrace was destruction ; and then.he be¬ 

came filled with a strange, sudden fear; fear, not for him¬ 
self, but for Sah-lftma, whose ardent glance burned into 
her dark, languid-lidded, amorous orbs with the lustre of 
flame meeting flame —Sah-lfima, whose beautiful flushed 
face was as that of a god inspired, or lover triumphant. 
What could he do to shield and save this so idolized friend, 
of his ?— this dear familiar for whom he had such close 
and ever-increasing sympathy! Might he not possibly 
guard him in some way and ward ofk impending danger t 



AULATH. 


nil 

But what danger ? What spectral shadow of dread hov¬ 
ered above this brilliant scene of high feasting and vol¬ 
uptuous revelry ? None that he could imagine or define, 
and yet he was consoious, of an ominous, unuttered pre¬ 
monition of peril in the very air—peril for Sah-luma, al¬ 
ways for Sah-luma, never for himself, .... Self seemed 
dead and entombed forever I Involuntarily lifting his eyes 
to the great green dome where.the globe of fire twirled 
rapidly like a rolling star, he saw some words written 
round it in golden letters ; they were large and distinot, 
and ran thus: 

“Live in the Now, but question not the Afterwards! ” 

A wise axiom! . . yet almost a platitude, for did not 
every one occupy themselves exclusively with the Now, 
regardless of future consequences ? Of course! Who but 
sages—or fools—would stop to question the Afterwards ! 

Just then Lysia ascended her black crystal throne in 
all her statuesque majesty, and sinking indolently amid 
its sable cushions, where she shone in her wonderful white¬ 
ness like a glistening pearl set in ebony, she signed to 
her guests to resume their places at table. She was in¬ 
stantly obeyed. Sah-luma took what was evidently his 
accustomed post at her right hand, while Tlieos found a 
vacant corner on her left, next to the picturesque, loung¬ 
ing figure of the young man Nir-j&lis, who looked up at 
him with a half smile as he seated himself, and court¬ 
eously made more room for him among the tumbled 
emerald-silk draperies of the luxurious divan they now 
shared together, Nir-j&lis was by no means sober, but 
h© had recovered a little of his self-possession since Lysia’s 
sleepy eyes had darted such cold contempt upon him, and 
he seemed for the present to be on his guard against 
giving any further possible cause of offence. 

“ Thou art a new-comer,—a stranger, if I mistake not ? ” 
he inquired in a low, abrupt, yet kindly tone. 

“ Yes,” replied Theos in the same soft sotto-voce. “I 
am a mere sojourner in Al-Kyris for a few days only, . . . 
the guest of the divine Sah-luma.” 

Nir-jalis raised his eyebrows with an expression of 
amused wonder. 

“ Divine! ” he ejaculated. “ By my faith! what neo¬ 
phyte have we here! ” and supporting himself on one elbow 
lie stared at his companion as though he saw in him some 
singular human phenomenon. “ Dost thou really be- 


192 


ARDATH. 


lieve,” he went on jestingly, “in the divinity of poets? 
Dost thou think they write what they mean, or prac¬ 
tice what they preach ? Then art thou the veriest inno¬ 
cent that ever wore the muscular semblance of man! 
Poets, my friend, are the most absolute impostors,. . 
they melodize their rhymed music on phases of emotion 
they have never experienced; as for instance our Laureate 
yonder will string a pretty sonnet on the despair of love, 
he knowing nothing of despair, . . he will write of a broken 
heart, his own being unpricked by so much as a pin’s 
point of trouble; and he will speak in his verse of dying 
for love wiien he would not let his little finger ache for 
the sake of a woman who worshipped him! Look not 
so vaguely! ’tis so, indeed! . . . and as for the divine part? 
of him, wait but a little, and thou shalt see thy poet-god 
become a satyr! ” 

He laughed maliciously, and Theos felt an angry flush 
rising to his brows. lie could not bear to hear Sali-luma 
thus lightly maligned even by this half-drunken reveller; 
it stung him to the quick, as if he personally were in¬ 
cluded in the implied accusation of unworthiness. Nir- 
jalis perceived his annoyance, and added good-naturedly: 

“Tush, man! Yex not thy soul as to thy friend’s vir¬ 
tues or vices—what are they to thee ? And of a truth 
Bah-luma is no worse than the rest of us. All I maintain 
is that he is certainly no better. I have known many 
poets in my day, and they are all more or less alike—pet¬ 
ulant as babes, peevish as women, selfish as misers, and 
conceited as peacocks. They should be different ? Oh, 
jes!—they should be the perpetual youth of mankind, 
the faithful singers of love idealized and made perfect. 
But then none of us are what we ought to be ! Besides, 
if we were all virtuous, ... by the gods 1 the world would 
j become too dull a hole to live in! Enough ! Wilt drink 
with me?” and beckoning a slave, he had his own goblet 
and that of Theos filled to the brim with wine. 

“ To our more intimate acquaintance! ” he said smil¬ 
ingly, and Theos, somewhat captivated by the easy court¬ 
esy of his manner, could do no less than respond cordially 
to the proffered toast. At that moment a triumphant 
burst of music, like the sound of mingled flutes, hautboys, 
and harps, rushed through the dome like a strong wind 
sweeping in from the sea, and with it the hum and buzz 
of conversation began in good earnest. Theos, liising tfis 


ARB ATE. 


193 


gaze toward Lysia’s seat, saw that she was now sur¬ 
rounded by the four attendant negresses, who, standing 
two on each side of her throne, held large fans of pea¬ 
cock plumes, which, as they were waved slowly to and 
fro, emitted a thousand scintillations of jewel-like splen¬ 
dor. A slave, attired in scarlet, knelt on one knee before 
her, proffering a golden salver loaded with the choicest 
fruits and wines ; a lazy smile played on her lips—lips 
that outrivaled the dewy tint of half-opening roses ; the 
serpents in her hair and on her rounded arms quivered 
in the light like living things; the great Symbolic Eye 
glanced wickedly out from the white beauty of her heav¬ 
ing breast; and as he surveyed her, thus resplendent in 
all the startling seductiveness of her dangerous charms, 
her loveliness entranced and intoxicated him like the 
faint perfume of some rare and powerful exotic, .... his 
senses seemed to sink drowningly in the whelming influ¬ 
ence of her soft and dazzling grace; and though he still 
resented, he could not resist her mesmeric power. No 
wonder, he thought, that Sah-luma’s eyes darkened with 
passions as they dwelt on her! . . . . and no wonder that 
he, like Sah-luma, was content to be gently but surely 
drawn within the glittering web of her magic spell—a 
spell fatal, yet too bewilderingly sweet for human strength 
to fight against. The mysterious sense he had of danger 
lurking somewhere for Sah-luma applied, so he fancied, 
in no way to himself—it did not much matter what hap¬ 
pened to him—he was a mere nobody. He could be of no 
use anywhere; he was as one banished into strange exile; 
his brain—that brain he had once deemed so clear, so 
subtle, so eminently reasoning and all-comprehensive— 
was now nothing but a chaotic confusion of vague sugges¬ 
tions, and only served to very slightly guide him in the 
immediate present, giving him no practical clue at all as 
to the past through which he had lived, or the circum¬ 
stances he most wished to remember. He was a fool —a 
dreamer—ungifted—unfamous! . . . . were he to die, not a 
soul would regret his loss. His own fate therefore con¬ 
cerned him little—he could handle fire recklessly and not 
feel the flame ; he could, so he believed, run any risk, and 
yet escape, comparatively free of harm. 

But with Sah-luma it was different! Sah-luma must 
be guarded and cherished; his was a valuable life—the 
life of a genius such as the world sees but once in a century 
13 —-- 




194 


ARDAYH. 


—and it should not, so Theos determined,—be emperfR^ 
or wasted; no! not even for the sake of the sensuous, 
exquisite, conquering beauty of this dazzling Priestess oi 
the Sun—the fairest sorceress that ever triumphed over 
the frail yet immortal Spirit of Man 1 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

THE LOVE THAT KILLS. 

How the time went he could not tell; in so gay and 
gorgeous a scene hours might easily pass with the swift¬ 
ness of unmarked moments. Peals of laughter echoed 
now and again through the vaulted dome, and excited 
voices were frequently raised in clamorous disputations 
and contentious arguments that only just sheered off the 
boundary-line of an actual quarrel. All sorts of topics 
were discussed—the laws, the existing mode of govern¬ 
ment, the latest discoveries in science, and the military 
prowess of the King—but the conversation chiefly turned 
on the spread of disloyalty, atheism, and republicanism 
among the population of Al-Kyris,—and the influence of 
Khosrul on the minds of the lower classes. The episode 
of the Prophet’s late capture and fresh escape seemed to 
be perfectly well known to all present, though it had oc¬ 
curred so recently ; one would have thought the detailed 
account of it had been received through some private 
telephone, communicating with the King’s palace. 

As the banquet progressed and the wine flowed more 
lavishly, the assembled guests grew less and less 
circumspect in their general behavior; they flung them¬ 
selves full length on their luxurious couches, in the 
laziest attitudes, now pulling out handfuls of flowers from 
the tall porcelain jars that stood near, and pelting one 
another with them for mere idle diversion, . . . now 
summoning the attendant slaves to refill their wine-cups 
while they lay lounging at ease among their heaped-up 
cushions of silk and embroidery; and yet with all the 
voluptuous freedom of their manners, the picturesque 
grace that distinguished them was never wholly de¬ 
stroyed. These young men were dissolute, but not 
coarse ; bold, but not vulgar; they took their pleasure in 


ARDATH. 


195 


a delicately wanton fashion that was infinitely more 
dangerous in its influence on the mind than would have 
been the gross mirth and broad jesting of a similar 
number of uneducated plebeians. The rude licentiousness 
of an uncultivated boor has its safety-valve in disgust 
and satiety, . . but the soft, enervating sensualism of a 
trained and cultured epicurean aristocrat is a moral 
poison whose effects are so insidious as to be scarcely felt 
till all the native nobility of character has withered, 
and naught is left of a man but the shadow-wreck of his 
former self. 

There was nothing repulsive in the half-ironical, half- 
mischievous merriment of these patrician revellers ; their 
witticisms were brilliant and pointed, but never indelicate 
and if their darker passions were roused, and ready to 
run riot, they showed as yet no sign of it. They enjoyed 
—yes! with that selfish animal enjoyment and love of 
personal indulgence which all men, old and young 
without exception, take such delight in—unless indeed 
they be sworn and sorrowful anchorites, and even then 
you may be sure they are always regretting the easy 
license and libertinage of their bygone days of unbrMled 
independence when they could foster their pet weak¬ 
nesses, cherish their favorite vices, and laugh at all creeds 
and all morality as though Divine Justice were a mere 
empty name, and they themselves the super-essence of 
creation. Ah, what a ridiculous spectacle is Man! the 
two-legged pigmy of limited brain, and still more limited 
sympathies, that, standing arrogantly on his little grave 
the earth, coolly criticises" the Universe, settles law, and 
measures his puny stature against that awful Unknown 
Force, deeply hidden, but majestically existent, which for 
want of ampler designation we call God —God, whom 
some of us will scarcely roeognize, save with the mixture 
of doubt, levity, and general reluctance; God, whom we 
never obey unless obedience is enforced by calamity; 
God, whom we never truly love, because so many of us 
prefer to stake our chances of the future on the pos¬ 
sibility of His non-existence! 

Strangely enough, thoughts of this God, this despised 
and forgotten Creator, came wandering hazily over Theos’s 
mind all the present moment when, glancing round the 
splendid banquet-table, he studied the different faces 
of all assembled, and saw Self, Self, Self, indelibly ini. 


*96 


ABLATE. 


pressed on every one of them. Not a single connte* 
nance was there that did not openly betray the complacent 
hauteur and tranquil vanity of absolute Egotism, Sah- 
lfima’s especially. But then Sah-luma had something to 
be proud of—his genius; it was natural that he should 
be satisfied with himself—he was a great man! But was 
it well for even a great man to admire his own great¬ 
ness ? This was a pertinent question, and somewhat 
difficult to answer. A genius must surely be more or 
less conscious of his superiority to those who have no 
genius? Yet why? May it not happen, on occasions, 
that the so-called fool shall teach a lesson to the so-called 
wise man ? Then where is the wise man’s superiority if 
a fool can instruct him ? Theos found these suggestions 
curiously puzzling; they seemed simple enough, and yet 
they opened up a vista of intricate disquisition which he 
was in no humor to follow. To escape from his own re¬ 
flections he began to pay close attention to the conversa¬ 
tion going on around him, and listened with an eager, al¬ 
most painful interest, whenever he heard Lysia’s sweet, 
languid voice chiming through the clatter of men’s tongues 
like the silver stroke of a small bell ringing in a storm at 
sea. 

“ And how hast thou left thy pale beauty Niphrata ? ” 
she was asking Sah-luma in half-cold, half-caressing ac¬ 
cents. “ Does her singing still charm thee as of yore ? 
I understand thou hast given her her freedom. Is that 
prudent? Was she not safer as thy slave?” 

Sah-luma glanced up quickly in surprise. “ Safer ? 
She is as safe as a rose in its green sheath,” he replied. 
“ What harm should come to her ? ” 

u I spoke not of harm,” said Lysia, with a lazy smile. 
“ But the day may come, good minstrel, when thy sheathed 
rose may seek some newer sunshine than thy face! . . 
when thy much poesy may pall upon her spirit, and thy 
love-songs grow stale! . . . and she may string her harp 
to a different tune than the perpetual adoration-hymn 
of Sah-luma! ” 

The handsome Laureate looked amused. 

“Let her do so then! ” he laughed carelessly. “ Were 
she to leave me I should not miss her greatly; a thousand 
pieces of gold will purchase me another voice as sweet as 
another maid as fair! Meanwhile the child is free 
to Shape her o#n fate,—her own futtife, I bind her no 


ARDATE 


197 


longer to my service; nevertheless, like the jessamine- 
flower, she clings,—and will not easily unwind the ten¬ 
drils of her heart from mine.” 

“ Poor jessamine-flower! ” murmured Lysia negligent¬ 
ly, with a touch of malice in her tone. “ What a rock 
it doth embrace ; how little vantage-ground it hath where¬ 
in to blossom! ” And her drowsy eyes shot forth a fiery 
glance from under their heavily fringed drooping white 
lids. 

Sah-lhma met her look with one of mingled vexation 
and reproach ; she smiled and raising a goblet of wine to 
her lips, kissed the brim, and gave it to him with an in¬ 
describably graceful, swaying gesture of her whole form 
that reminded one of a tall white lily bowing in the breeze. 
He seized the cup eagerly, drank from it and returned it, 
—his momentary annoyance, whatever it was, passed, 
and a joyous elation illumined his fine features. Then 
Lysia, refilling the cup, kissed it again and handed it to 
Theos with so much soft animation and tenderness in her 
face as she turned to him, that his enforced calmness 
nearly gave way, and he had much ado to restrain him¬ 
self from falling at her feet in a transport of passion, and 
crying out! . “ Love me, O thou sorceress-sovereign of 
beauty! . . . love me, if only for an hour, and then let 
me die! . . for I shall have lived out all the joys of life 
in one embrace of thine ! ” His hand trembled as he took 
the goblet, and he drank half its contents thirstily,—then 
imitating Sah-lfima’s example, he returned it to her with 
a profound salutation. Her eyes dwelt meditatively upon 
him. 

“What a dark, still, melancholy countenance is thine, 
Sir Theos! ” she said abruptly—“ Thou art, for sure, a 
man of strongly repressed and concentrated passions, . . . 
’tis a nature I love! I would there were more of thy 
proud and chilly temperament in Al-Kyris! . . . . Our 
men are like velvet-winged butterflies, drinking honey all 
day and drowsing in sunshine—full to the brows of folly, 
—frail and delicate as the little dancing maidens of the 
King’s seraglio, . . nervous too, with weak heads, that 
art apt to ache on small provocation, and bodies that are 
apt to fail easily when but slightly fatigued. Aye!— 
thou art a man clothed complete in manliness,—more¬ 
over . . . .” 

She paused, and leaning forward so that the dark 



i 


198 ABDATH. 

shower of her perfumed hair brushed his arm. . «• “ Hast 
ever heard travellers talk of volcanoes ?. . . those marvel¬ 
lous mountains that oft wear crowns of ice on their sum¬ 
mits and yet hold unquenchable fire in their depths ?. . . 
Methinks thou dost resemble these,—and that at a touch, 
the flames would leap forth uncontrolled! ” 

Her magical low voice, more melodious in tone 
than the sound of harps played by moonlight on the 
water, thrilled in his ears and set his pulses beating mad¬ 
ly,—with an effort he checked the torrent of love-words 
that rushed to his lips, and looked at her in a sort of 
wildly wondering appeal. Her laughter rang out in 
silvery s weet ripples, and throwing herself lazily back in 
her throne, she called . . 

“ Aizif ! . . Aizif ! ” 

The great tigress instantly bounded forward like an 
obedient hound, and placed its fore-paws on her knees, 
while she playfully held a sugared comfit high above its 
head. 

“ Up, Aizif! up! ” she cried mirthfully. . “Up ! and 
be like a man for once ! . . snatch thy pleasure at all 
hazards! ” 

With a roar, the savage brute leaped and sprang, its 
sharp white teeth fully displayed, its sly green eyes 
glisteningly prominent,—and again Lysia’s rich laughter 
pealed forth, mingling with the impatient snarls of her 
terrific favorite. Still she held the tempting morsel in 
her little snowy hand that glittered all over with rare 
gems,—and still the tigress continued to make impotent 
attempts to reach it, growing more and more ferocious 
with every fresh effort,—till all at once she shut her 
palm upon the dainty so that it could not be seen, and 
lightly catching the irritated b )ast by the throat brought 
its eyes on a level with her own. The effect was in¬ 
stantaneous, . . a strong shudder passed through its 
frame—and it cowered and crouched lower and lower, 
in abject fear,—the sweat brol e out, and stood in large 
drops on its sleek hide, . . and panting heavily, as the 
firm grasp of its mistress slowly relaxed, it sank down 
prone, in trembling abasement on the second step of the 
dais, still looking up into those densely brilliant gazelle 
eyes that were full of such deadly fascination and merci¬ 
less tyranny. 

“ Good Aizif! ” said Lysia then, in that languid, soft 


ABBA TH. 


199 


Voice, that while so sweet, suggested hidden treachery. . 
“ Gentle fondling! . . Thou hast fairly earned thy 
reward! . . Here ! . . take it! ”—and unclosing her 
roseate palm, she showed the desired bonne-bouche , and 
offered it with a pretty coaxing air,—hut the tigress now 
refused to touch it, and lay as still as an animal of painted 
stone. 

“ What a true philosopher she is, my sweet Aizif! ” she 
went on amusedly stroking the creature’s head,—“ Her 
feminine wit teaches her what the dull brains of men can 
never grasp, . . namely, that pleasures, no matter how 
sweet, turn to ashes ancl wormwood when once obtained, 
—and that the only happiness in this world is the charm of 
desire! There is a subject for thee, Sah-luma! . . write 
an immortal Ode on the mysteries, the delights, the 
never-ending ravishment of Desire !. . . but carry not thy 
fancy on to desire’s fulfilment, for there thou shalt find 
infinite bitterness! The soul that wilfully gratifies its 
dearest wish, has stripped life of its supremest joy, and 
stands thereafter in an emptied sphere, sorrowful and 
alone,—with nothing left to hope for, nothing to look 
forward to, save death, the end of all ambition ! ” 

“ Nay, fair lady,”—said Theos suddenly,—“We who 
deem ourselves the children of the high gods, and the off¬ 
spring of a Spirit Eternal, may surely aspire to something 
beyond this death, that, like a black seal, closes up 
the brief scroll of our merely human existence ! And to 
us, therefore, ambition should be ceaseless,—for if we 
master the world, there are yet more worlds to win : and 
if we find one heaven, we do but accept it as a pledge of 
other heavens beyond it! The aspirations of Man are 
limitless,—hence his best assurance of immortality,. . . 
else why should he perpetually long for things that here 
are impossible of attainment ? . . things that like faint, 
floating clouds rimmed with light, suggest without declar¬ 
ing a glory unperceived ? ” 

Lysia looked at him steadfastly, an under-gleam of 
malice shining in her slumbrous eyes. 

“ Why ? . . Because, good sir, the gods love mirth! . . . 
. . and the wanton Immortals are never more thorough¬ 
ly diverted, than, when leaning downward from their 
clear empyrean, they behold Man, their Insect-Toy, arro¬ 
gating to himself a share in their imperishable Essence! 
To keep up the Eternal Jest, they torture him with vain 



200 


ARDATH. 


delusions, and prick him on with hopes never to he real¬ 
ized ; aye! and the whole vast Heaven may well shake 
with thunderous laughteT at the pride with which he doth 
put forth his puny claim to be elected to another and 
fairer state of existence! What hath he done ? ... what 
does he do, to merit a future life ? . . Are his deeds so 
noble ? . . is his wisdom so great ? . . is his mind so 
stainless? He, the oppressor of all Nature and of 
his brother man,—he, the insolent, self-opinionated tyrant, 
yet bound slave of the Earth on which he dwells. . . why 
should he live again and carry his ignoble presence into the 
splendors of an Eternity too vast for him to comprehend ? 
. . Nay, nay!. . I perceive thou art one of the credulous, 
for whom a reasonless worship to an unproved Deity is, 
for the sake of state-policy, maintained, . . I had thought 
thee wiser ! . . but no matter ! thou shalt pay thy vows 
to the shrine of Nagaya to-morrow, and see with what 
glorious pomp and panoply we impose on the faithful, 
who like thee believe in their own deathless and divinely 
constituted natures, and enjoy to the full the grand 
Conceit that persuades them of their right to Immor¬ 
tality ! ” 

Her words carried with them a certain practical 
positiveness of meaning, and Theos was somewhat im¬ 
pressed by their seeming truth. After all, it was a 
curious and unfounded conceit of a man to imagine him¬ 
self the possessor of an immortal soul,—and yet. 

if all things were the outcome of a divine Creative In¬ 
fluence, was it not unjust of that Creative Influence 
to endow all humanity with such a belief if it had no 
foundation whatever? And could injustice be associated 
with divine law ? . . . 

He, Theos, for instance, was certain of his own immor¬ 
tality,—so certain that, surrounded as he was by this 
brilliant company of evident atheists, he felt himself to 
be the only real and positive existing Being among an 
assembly of Shadow-figures,—but it was not the time or 
the place to enter into a theological discussion, especially 
with Lysia, . . and for the moment at least, he allowed 
her assertions to remain uncontradicted. He sat, how¬ 
ever, in a somewhat stern silence, now and then glancing 
wistfully and anxiously at Sah-luma, on whom the potent 
wines were beginning to take effect, and who had just 
thrown himself down on the dais at Lysia’s feet, close to 



ARDATH. 


201 


the tigress that still lay couched there in immovable 
quiet. It was a picture worthy of the grandest painter’s 
brush, . . . that glistening throne black as jet, with the 
fair form of Lysia shining within it, like a white sea- 
nympli at rest in a grotto of ocean-stalactites, . . the 
fantastically attired negresses on each side, with their 
waving peacock-plumes,—the vivid carnation-color of 
the dais, against which the black and yellow stripes of 
the tigress showed up in strong and brilliant contrast, . . 
and the graceful, jewel-decked figure of the Poet Lau¬ 
reate, who, half sitting, half reclining on a black velvet 
cushion, leaned his handsome head indolently against the 
silvery folds of Lysia’s robe, and looked up at her with 
eyes in which burned the ardent admiration and scarcely 
restrained passion of a privileged lover. 

Suddenly and quite involuntarily Tlieos thought of 
Niphr&ta, . . . alas, poor maiden! how utterly her 
devotion to Sah-luma was wasted! What did he care for 
her timid tenderness, . . her unselfish worship ? Noth¬ 
ing? . . less than nothing! He was entirely absorbed 
by the sovereign-peerless beauty of this wonderful High 
Priestess,—this witch-like weaver of spells more potent 
than those of Circe; and musing thereon, Theos was 
sorry for Niphrata, he knew not why. He felt that she 
had somehow been wronged,—that she suffered, . . . and 
that he, as well as Sah-luma, was in some mysterious way 
to blame for this, though he could by no means account 
for his own share in the dimly suggested reproach. This 
peculiar, remorseful emotion was transitory, like all the 
vaguely incomplete ideas that travelled mistily through 
his perplexed brain, and he soon forgot it in the increasing 
animation and interest of the scene that immediately 
surrounded him. 

The general conversation was becoming more and more „ 
noisy, and the laughter more and more boisterous,— 
several of the young men were now very much the worse 
for their frequent libations, and Nir-j&lis, particularly, 
began again to show marked symptoms of an inclination 
to break loose from all the bonds of prudent reserve. He 
lay full length on his silk divan, his feet touching Theos, 
who sat upright,—and, singing little snatches of song to 
himself, he pulled the vine-wreath from his tumbled fair 
locks as though he found it too weighty, and flung it on 
the ground among the other debris of the feast. Then fold- 


202 


ARDATB. 


ing his arms lazily behind his head, he stared straight and 
fixedly before him at Lysia, seeming to note every jewel 
on her dress, every curve of her body, every slight gest¬ 
ure of her hand, every faint, cold smile that played on 
her lovely bps. One young man whom the .others ad¬ 
dressed as Ormaz, a haughty, handsome fellow enough, 

1 though with rather a sneering mouth just visible un- 
£ der his black mustache, was talking somewhat excitedly 
on the subject of Khosrul’s cunningly devised flight, . . 
for it seemed to be universally understood that the 
venerable Prophet was one of the Circle of Mystics,— 
persons whose knowledge of science, especially in matters 
connected with electricity, enabled them to perform 
astonishing juggleries, that were frequently accepted 
by the uninitiated vulgar as almost divine miracles. 
Not very long ago, according to Orm&z, who was 
animatedly recalling the circumstance for the benefit 
of the company, the words “ Fall, Al-Kyris ! ” had. 
appeared emblazoned in letters of fire on the sky at mid¬ 
night, and the phenomenon had been accompanied by two 
tremendous volleys of thunder, to the infinite consterna¬ 
tion of the multitude, who received it as a supernatural 
manifestation. But a member of the King’s Privy 
Council, a satirical skeptic and mistruster of everybody’s 
word but his own, undertook to sift the matter,—and 
adopting the dress of the Mystics, managed to introduce 
himself into one of their secret assemblies, where with 
considerable astonishment, he saw them make use of a 
small wire, by means of which they wrote in characters 
of azure flame on the whiteness of a blank wall,—more¬ 
over, he discovered that they possessed a lofty turret, 
built secretly and securely in a deep, unfrequented grove 
of trees, from whence, with the aid of various curious 
instruments and reflectors, they could fling out any 
pattern or device they chose on the sky, so that it 
should seem to be written by the finger of Lightning. 
Having elucidated these mysteries, and become highly 
edified thereby, the learned Councillor returned to the 
King, and gave full information as to the result of his 
researches, whereupon forty Mystics were at once ar¬ 
rested and flung into prison for life, and their nefarious 
practices were made publicly known to all the inhabitants 
of the city. Since then, no so-called “ spiritual ” demon¬ 
strations had taken place till now, when on this very night 


ARDATB. 

Zephoranim’s Presence-Chamber had been suddenly 
enveloped in the thunderous and terrifying darkness 
which had so successfully covered Khosrul’s escape. 

“The King should have slain him at once—” declared 
Oimaz emphatically, turning to Lysia as he spoke . . “I 
am surprised that His Majesty permitted so flagrant an 
impostor and trespasser of the law to speak one word, or 
live one moment in his royal presence.” 

“Thou art surprised, Ormaz, at most things, especially 
those which savor of simple good-nature and forbear¬ 
ance . ” responded Lysia coldly. “ Thou art a wolfish 
youth, and wouldst tear thine own brother to shreds if 
he thwarted thy pleasure ! For myself I see little cause 
for astonishment, that a soldier-hero like Zephoranim 
should take some pity on so frail and aged a wreck of 
human wit as Khosrul. Khosrul blasphemes the Faith, . . 
What then ? . do ye not all blaspheme ? ” 

“Not in the open streets ! ” said Ormaz hastily. 

“No—ye have not the mettle for that!”—and Lysia 
smiled darkly, while the great eye on her breast flashed 
forth a sardonic lustre—“ Strong as ye all are, and young, 
ye lack the bravery of the weak old man who, mad as he 
may be, has at least the courage of his opinions! Who 
is there here that believes in the Sun as a god, or in 
Nagaya as a mediator? Not one, . . . but ye are cult¬ 
ured hypocrites all, and. careful to keep your heresies 
secret! ” 

“And thou, Lysia! ” suddenly cried Nir-jalis,. . « Why 
if thou canst so liberally admire the valor of thy sworn 
enemy Khosrul, why dost not thou step boldly forth, and 
abjure the Faith thou art Priestess of, yet in thy heart 
deridest as a miserable superstition ? ” 

She turned her splendid flashing orbs slowly upon him, 

. . . what an awful chill, steely glitter leaped forth from 
their velvet-soft depths! 

“Prithee, be heedful of thy speech, good Nirjalis! ” 
she said, with a quiver in her voice curiously like the 
suppressed snarl of her pet tigress . . “ The majority of 

men are fools, . . . like thee! . . . and need to be ruled 
according to their folly ! ” 

Ormaz broke into a laugh. “And thou dost rule 
them, wise Virgin, with a rod of iron ! ” he said satiri¬ 
cally . . . “The King himself is but a slave in thy 
hands! ” 


204 


ABDATZr • — 

“ The King is a devout believer,”—remarked a dainty, 
effeminate-looking youth, arrayed in a wonderfully pict¬ 
uresque garb of glistening purple,—“ He pays his vows 
to Nagaya three times a day, at sunrise, noon, and sunset, 
—and ’tis said lie hath oft been seen of late in silent medi¬ 
tation alone before the Sacred Veil, even after midnight. 
Maybe he is there at this very moment, offering up a 
royal petition for those of his less pious subjects who, like 
ourselves, love good wine more than long prayers. Ah! 
—he is a most austere and noble monarch,—a very an¬ 
chorite and pattern of strict religious discipline! ” And 
he shook his head to and fro with an air of mock solemn 
fervor. Every one laughed, . . and Orm&z playfully 
threw a cluster of half-crushed roses at the speaker. 

“ Hold thy foolish tongue, Pharnim,—” he said,—“ The 
King doth but show a fitting example to his people, . . 
there is a time to pray, and a time to feast, and our 
Zephoranim can do both as becomes a man. But of his 
midnight meditations I have heard naught, . . since when 
hath he deserted his Court of Love for the colder 
chambers of the Sacred Temple ? ” 

“ Ask Lysia ! ” muttered Nir-j&lis drowsily, under his 
breath—“ She knows more of the King than she cares to 
confess! ” 

His words were spoken in a low voice, and yet they 
were distinct enough for all present to hear. A glance of 
absolute dismay went round the table, and a breathless 
silence followed like the ominous hush of a heated at¬ 
mosphere before a thunder-clap. Nir-jalis, apparently 
struck by the sudden stillness, looked lazily round from 
among the tumbled cushions where he reclined,—a vacant, 
tipsy smile on his lips. 

“ What a company of mutes ye are! ” he said thickly. . 

“ Hid ye not hear me ? I bade ye ask Lysia, . . ” and 
all at once he Bat bolt upright, his face crimsoning as 
with an access of passion. . “Ask Lysia!” he repeated 
loudly. . “Ask her why the mighty Zephor&nim creeps 
in and out the Sacred Temple at midnight like a skulk¬ 
ing slave instead of a King! .... at midnight, when he 
should be shut within his palace walls, playing the fool 
among his women! I warrant ’tis not piety that per¬ 
suades him to wander through the underground Passage 
of the Tombs alone and in disguise! Sah-lfima! . . pretty 
prefect mm m thou art t . . thou art neat enough to 


ARB ATS. 


205 


Our Lady of Witcheries,—ask her, . . . ask her! . . she 
knows, . and his voice sank into an incoherent mur¬ 
mur, . . “ she knows more than she cares to confess! ” 

Another deep and death-like pause ensued, . . . and 
then Lysia’s silvery cold tones smote the profound silence 
with calm, clear resonance. 

“ Friend Mr-jalis,” she said, . . how tuneful were her 
accents, . . how chilly sweet her smile! . . “Methinks 
thou art grown altogether too wise for this world! . . ’tis 
pity thou shouldest continue to linget in so narrow and 
incomplete a sphere! . . Depart hence therefore!! . . I 
shall freely excuse thine absence, since thy hour has 
come ! . . .” 

And, taking from the table at her side a tall crystal 
chalice fashioned in the form of a lily set on a golden 
stem, she held it up toward him. Starting wildly from 
his couch he looked at her, as though doubting whether 
he had heard her words aright, . . a strong shudder shook 
him from head to foot, . . his hands clenched themselves 
convulsively together,—and then slowly, slowly, he stag¬ 
gered to his feet and stood upright. He was suddenly 
but effectually sobered—the flush of intoxication died off 
his cheeks—and his eyes grew strained and piteous. 
Theos, watching him in wonder and fear, saw his broad 
chest heave with the rapid-drawn gasping of his breath, 

. . he advanced a step or two—then all at once stretched 
out his hands in imploring agony. 

“ Lysia! ” he murmured huskily. “ Lysia ! . . pardon ! 

. . . spare me! . . . For the sake of past love have pity! ” 

At this Sah-luma sprang up from liis lounging posture 
on the dais, his hand on the hilt of his dagger, his whole 
face flaming with wrath. 

“ By my soul! ” he cried, “ what doth this fellow prate 
of? . . . Past love? . . Thou profane boaster! . . how 
darest thou speak of love to the Priestess of the Faith ? ” 

Mr-jalis heeded him not. His eyes were fixed on Lysia* 
like the eyes of a tortured animal who vainly seeks for 1 
mercy at the hand of its destroyer. Step by step he came 
hesitatingly to the foot of her throne, . . and it was then 
that Theos perceived near at hand a personage lie imme¬ 
diately recognized,—the black scarlet-clad slave Gazra, 
who had brought Lysia’s message to Sah-luma that same 
afternoon. He had made his appearance now so swiftly 
» and silently, that it was impossible to tell where he had 


206 


AX'D Am. 


come from,—and he stood close to Nir-jalis, his muscular 
arms folded tightly across his chest, and his hideous 
mouth contorted into a grin of cruel amusement and ex¬ 
pectancy. Absolute quiet reigned within the magnificent 
banquet hall, . . the music had ceased,—and not a sound 
could be heard, save the delicate murmur of the wind 
outside swaying the water-lilies on the moonlit lake.. 
Every one’s attention was centred on the unhappy young 
man, who with lifted head and rigidly clasped hands, 
faced Lysia as a criminal faces a judge, . . Lysia, whose 
dazzling smile beamed upon him with the brightness of 
summer sunbeams,—Lysia, whose exquisite voice lost 
none of its richness as she spoke his doom. 

“ By the vow which thou hast vowed to me, Nir-jalis—” 
she said slowly . . “ and by thine oath sworn on the 
Symbolic Eye of Raphon” . . here she touched the 
dreadful Jewel on her breast—“which bound thy life to 
my keeping, and thy death to my day of choice, I here¬ 
with bestow on thee the Chalice of Oblivion—the Silver 
Nectar of Peace! Sleep, and wake no more !—drink and 
die! The gateways of the Kingdom of Silence stand 

open to receive thee!.thy service is finished! . . 

.fare-thee-well! ” 

With the utterance of the last word, she gave him the 
glittering cup she held. lie took it mechanically,—and 
for one instant glared about him on all sides, scanning the 
faces of the attentive guests as though in the faint hope 
of some pity, some attempt at rescue. But not a single 
look of compassion was bestowed upon him save by Theos, 
who, full of struggling amazement and horror, would 
have broken out into indignant remonstrance, had not an 
imperative glance from Sail-luma warned him that any 
interference on his part would only make matters worse. 
He therefore, sorely against his will, and only for Sah- 
luma’s sake, kept silence, watching Nir-jalis meanwhile 
in a sort of horrible fascination. 

There was something truly awful in the radiant un¬ 
quenchable laughter that lurked in Lysia’s lovely eyes, . . 
something positively devilish in the grace of her manner, 
as with a negligent movement, she reseated herself in her 
crystal throne, and taking a knot of magnolia-flowers that 
lay beside her, idly toyed with their creamy buds, all the 
while keeping her basilisk gaze fixed immovably and re¬ 
lentlessly on her sentenced victim. lie, grasping the lily- 



(ARDATH. 207 

shaped chalice convulsively in his right hand, looked up 
despairingly to the polished dome of malachite, with its 
revolving globe of fire that shed a solemn blood-red glow 
upon his agonized young face, . . a smile was on his lips, 
—the dreadful smile of desperate, maddened misery. 

“ Oh, ye malignant gods ! ” he cried fiercely—“ ye im¬ 
mortal Furies that made Woman for Man’s torture, . . 
Bear witness to my death! . . bear witness to my parting 
spirit’s malediction! Cursed be they who love unwisely 
and too well! . . cursed be all the wiles of desire and the 
haunts of dear passion!—cursed be all fair faces whose 
fairness lures men to destruction! . . cursed be the warmth 
of caresses, the beating of heart against heart, the kisses 
that color midnight with fire! Cursed be Love from birth 
unto death!—may its sweetness be brief, and its bitterness 
endless !—its delight a snare, and its promise treachery ! 
O ye mad lovers!—fools all! ” . . . and he turned his splen¬ 
did wild eyes round on the hushed assemblage,—“ Despise 
me and my words as ye will, throughout ages to come, the 
curse of the dead Nir-jalis shall cling! ” 

He lifted the goblet to his lips, and just then his deliri¬ 
ous glanced lighted on Sah-luma. 

“ I drink to thee, Sir Laureate ! ” he said hoarsely, and 
with a ghastly attempt at levity—“ Sing as sweetly as 
thou wilt, thou must drain the same cup ere long! ” 

And without another second’s hesitation he drank off 
the entire contents of the chalice at a draught. Scarcely 
had he done so, when with a savage scream he fell prone 
on the ground, his limbs twisted in acute agony,—his feat¬ 
ures hideously contorted,—his hands beating the air 
Wildly, as though in contention with some invisible foe, 
, . while in strange and terrible dissonance with his tort¬ 
ured cries, Lysia’s laughter, musically mellow, broke out 
in little quick peals, like the laughter of a very young 
child. 

“ Ah, ah, Nir-jalis! ” she exclaimed. “ Thou dost suffer! 
That is well! . . I do rejoice to see thee fighting for life in 
the very jaws of death! Fain would I have all men thus 
tortured out of their proud and tyrannous existence! . . . . 
their strength made strengthless, their arrogance brought 
to naught, their egotism and vain-glory beaten to the dust! 
Ah, ah! thou that wert the complacent braggart of love, 
—the self-sufficient proclaimer of thine own prowess, 
where is thy boasted vigor now? , , Writhe on, good fool! 



ABBATH. 


208 

. . thy little day is done! . . All honor to the Silver Nectar 
whose venom never fails ! ” 

Leaning forward eagerly, she clapped her hands in a sort 
of fierce ecstasy—and apparently startled by the sound, 
the tigress rose up from its couchant posture, and shaking 
itself with a snarling yawn, glared watchfully at the com 
Vulsed human wretch whose struggles became with each 
’ moment more and more frightful to witness. The impas¬ 
sive, cold-blooded calmness with which all the men pres¬ 
ent, even Sah-luma, looked on at the revolting spectacle of 
their late comrade’s torture, filled Theos with shuddering 
abhorrence, .... sick at heart, he strove to turn away his 
eyes from the straining throat and upturned face of the 
miserable Nir-jalis,—a face that had a moment or two be¬ 
fore been beautiful, but was now so disfigured as to be 
almost beyond recognition. Presently as the anguish of 
the poisoned victim increased, shriek after shriek broke 
from his pallid lips, . . rolling himself on the ground like 
a wild beast, he bit his hands and arms in his frenzy till 
he was covered with blood, . . . and again and yet again 
the dulcet laughter of the High Priestess echoed through 
the length and breadth of the splendid hall,—and even Sal- 
luma, the poet Sah-luma, condescended to smile! That 
smile, so cold, so cruel, so unpitying, made Theos for a 
moment hate him, . . of what use, he thought, was it, to 
be a writer of soft and delicate verse, if the inner nature 
of the man was merciless, selfish, and utterly regardless 
of the woes of others ? . . . The rest of the guests were 
profoundly indifferent,—they kept silence, it is true, . . . . 
but they went on drinking their wine with perfectly una¬ 
bated enjoyment . . they were evidently accustomed to 
such scenes. The attendant slaves stood all mute and 
motionless, with the exception of Gazrti, who surveyed the 
torments of Nir-j&lis with an air of professional interest, 
and appeared to be waiting till they should have reached 
that pitch of excruciating agony when Nature, exhausted, 
I gives up the conflict and welcomes death as a release from 
' pain. 

But this desirable end was not yet. Suddenly spring¬ 
ing to his feet, Nir-j&lis tore open his richly jewelled vest, 
and pressed his two hands hard upon his heart, . . . the 
veins in his flesh were swollen and blue,—his labored 
breath seemed as though it must break his ribs in its ter¬ 
rible, panting struggle,—his face, livid and lined with 



ABDATH. 


209 


purple marks like heavy bruises, bore not a sing^ * rac e 
of its former fairness, . . . and his eyes, rolled up an( l 
fixed glassily in their quivering sockets, seemed to fc* 
dreadfully filled with the speechless memory of his lately 
spoken curse. He staggered toward Theos, and dropped 
heavily on his knees, .... 

“ Kill me! ” he moaned piteously, feebly pointing to the 
sheathed dagger in the other’s belt. “ In mercy! . . Kill 
ane! . . One thrust! . . , release me! . . this agony is 
more than I can bear, . . . Kill. . . Kill. . . . ! ” 

His voice died away in an inarticulate, gasping cry,— 
and Theos stared down upon him in dizzy fear and hor¬ 
ror! For. . . he had seen this same Nir~jdlis dying thus 
cruelly before! Oh God! . . . where,—where had this 
tragedy been previously enacted ? Bewildered and over¬ 
come with unspeakable dread, he drew his dagger—he 
would at least, he thought, put the tortured sufferer out 
of his misery, . . . but scarcely had his weapon left the 
sheath, when Lysia’s clear, cold voice exclaimed : 

“ Disarm him! ” and with the silent rapidity of a light¬ 
ning-flash, Gazra glided to his side, and the steel was 
snatched from his hand. Full of outraged pride and 
wrath, he sprang up, a torrent of words rushing to his 
lips, but before he could utter one, two slaves pounced 
upon him, and holding his arms, dexterously wound a 
silk scarf tight about his mouth. 

“ Be silent! ” whispered some one in his ear,—“ As 
you value your life and the life of Sah-luma,—be silent! ” 
But he cared nothing for this warning, . . reckless of 
consequences, he tore the scarf away and breaking loose 
from the hands that held him, made a bound toward 
Lysia. . . there he paused. Her eyes met his languidly, 
shedding a sombre, mysterious light upon him through 
the black shower of her abundant hair, . . . the evil glit¬ 
ter of the great Symbolic Gem she wore fixed him with 
its stony yet mesmeric luster. . . a delicious smile parted 
her roseate lips,—and breaking off a magnolia-bud from 
the cluster she held, she kissed and gave it to him. . . 

“ Be at peace, good Theos! ” she said in a low, tender 
tone, . . “ Beware of taking up arms in the defence of the 
unworthy, .... rather reserve thy courage for those 
who know how best to reward thy service! ” 

As one in a trance he took the flower she offered,—its 
fragrance, subtle and sweet, seemed to steal into his veins, 
U 



ABDATH. 


210 ^ 

anc^J b his manhood of all strength, . . . sinking sub¬ 
missively at her feet he gazed up at her in wondering 
wistfulness and ardent admiration, .... never was there 
a woman so bewilderingly beautiful as she! What were 
the sufferings of Nir-jafis now ? . . what was anything F- 
conipared to the strangely enervating ecstasy he felt in | 
letting his eyes dwell fondly on the fairness of her face, j 
the whiteness of her half-veiled bosom, the delicate, sheeny i 
dazzle of her polished skin, the soft and supple curves of 
her whole exquisite form, . . and spell-bound by the 
witchery of her loveliness, he almost forgot the very pres¬ 
ence of her dying victim. Occasionally indeed, he glanced 
at the agonized creature where he lay huddled on the 
ground in the convulsive throes of his dreadful death- 
struggle,—but it was now with precisely the same quiet 
and disdainful smile as that for which he had momentarily 
hated Sah-luma! There was a sound of singing some¬ 
where,—singing that had a mirthful under-throbbing in 
it, as though a thousand light-footed fairies were dancing 

to its sweet refrain ! And Nir-jalis heard it!. 

dying inch by inch as he was, he heard it, and with a last 
superhuman effort forced himself up once more to his 
feet, . . . his arms stiffly outstretched, .... his an¬ 
guished eyes full of a softened, strangely piteous glory. 

“To die!” he whispered in awed accents that pene¬ 
trated the air with singular clearness—“ To die! . . . 
nay. . . not so! . . . There is no death! . . I see it 

all!.I know!.To die is to live! . . 

to live again . . and to remember. . . to remember,— 
and repent, . . the past! ” 

And with the last word he fell heavily, face forward, a 
corpse. At the same moment a terrific roar resounded 
through the dome, and the tigress Aizif sprang stealthily 
down from the dais, and pounced upon the warm, lifeless 
body, mounting guard over it in an ominously significant 
attitude, with glistening eyes, lashing tail and nervously 
quivering claws. A slight thrill of horror ran through 
the company, but not a man moved. 

“ Aizif!—Aizif! ” called Lysia imperiously. 

The animal looked round with an angry snarl, and 
seemed for once disposed to disobey the summons of its 
mistress. She therefore rose from her throne, and step¬ 
ping forward with a swift, agile grace, caught the savage 
beast by the neck, and dragged it from its desired prey. 





ABLATE, 


211 


Then, with the point of her little, silver-sandaled foot, she 
turned the fallen face of the dead man slightly round, so 
that she might observe it more attentively, and noting its 
livid disfigurement, smiled, 

“ So much for the beauty and dignity of manhood ! ” 
she said with a contemptuous shrug of her snowy shoul¬ 
ders,—“ All perished in the space of a few brief moments! 
Look you, ye fair sirs that take pride in your strength and 
muscular attainments ! . . . Ye shall not find in all Al- 
Kyris a fairer face or more nobly knit frame than was 
possessed by this dead fooi, Nir-jalis, and yet, lo!—how 
the Silver Nectar doth make havoc on the sinews of ada¬ 
mant, the nerves of steel, the stalwart limbs! Tried by 
the touchstone of Death, ye are, with all your vaunted 
intelligence, your domineering audacity and self-love, no 
better than the slain dogs that serve vultures for car¬ 
rion ! . . .—moreover, ye are less than dogs in honesty, 
and vastly shamed by them in fidelity! ” 

She laughed scornfully as she spoke, still grasping the 
tigress by the neck in one slight hand,—and her glorious 
eyes flashed a mocking defiance on all the men assembled. 
Their countenances exhibited various expressions of un¬ 
easiness amounting to fear, . . some few smiled forcedly, 
others feigned a careless indifference, . . Sah-lhma flushed 
an angry red, and Theos, though he knew not why, felt a 
sudden pricking sense of shame. She marked all these 
signs of disquietude with apparently increasing amuse¬ 
ment, for her lovely face grew warm and radiant with 
suppressed, malicious mirth. She made a slight im¬ 
perative gesture of command to Gazra, who at once ap¬ 
proached, and y bending over the dead Nir-jalis, proceeded 
to strip off all the gold clasps and valuable jewels that 
had so lavishly adorned the ill-fated young man’s attire, 
—then beckoning another slave nearly as tall and muscular 
as himself, they attached to the neck and feet of the corpse 
round, leaden, bullet-shaped weights, fastened by means 
of heavy iron chains. This done, they raised the body 
from the floor and carried it between them to the central 
and largest casement of all that stood open to the mid¬ 
night air, and with a dexterous movement flung it out into 
the waters of the lake beneath. It fell with a sullen 
splash, the pale lilies on the surface rocking stormily to 
and fro as though blown by a gust of wind, while great 
circling ripples shone softly in the yello v gleam of the 


212 


ARB ATE. 


moonlight, as the dead man sank down, down, down like 
a stone into his crystal-quiet grave. 

Lysia returned to her throne with a serene step and 
unruffled brow, followed by the sulky and disappointed 
Aizif, . . smiling gently on Theos and Sah-lfima she re¬ 
seated herself, and touched a small bell at her side. It 
gave a sharp kling-klang like a suddenly struck cymbal— 
and lo ! . . the marble floor yawned asunder, and the 
banquet-table with all its costly fruits and flowers vanished 
underground with the swiftness of lightning ! The floor 
closed again, . . the broad, circular centre-space of the 
hall was now clear from all obstruction,—and the com¬ 
pany of revellers roused themselves a little from their 
drowsy postures of half-inebriated languor. The singing 
voices that had stirred Nir-jalis to sudden animation even 
in his dying agony, sounded nearer and nearer, and the 
globe of fire overhead changed its hue from that of crim¬ 
son to a delicate pink. At the extreme end of the glitter¬ 
ing vista of pale-green, transparent columns, a door sud¬ 
denly opened, and a flock of doves came speeding forth, 
their white, spread wings colored softly in the clear rose- 
radiance,—they circled round and round the dome three 
times, then fluttered in a palpitating arch over Lysia’s 
head, and finally sped straight across the hall to the other 
end, where they streamed snowily through another aper¬ 
ture and disappeared. Still nearer rippled the sound of 
singing, . . . and all at once a troop of girls came danc¬ 
ing noiselessly as fire-flies into the full, quivering pink¬ 
ness of the jewel-like light that floated about them, . . 
girls as lovely, as delicate, as dainty as cyclamens that 
wave in the woods in the early days of an Italian spring. 
Their garments were so white, so transparent, so filmy and 
clinging, that they looked like elves robed in mountain- 
vapor rather than human creatures, .... there were 
fifty of them in all, and as they tripped forward, they, 
like the doves that had heralded their approach, sur¬ 
rounded Lysia flutteringly, saluting her with gestures of 
exquisite grace and devout humility, while she, enthroned 
in supreme fairness, with her tigress crouched beside her, 
looked down on them like a goddess calmly surveying a 
crowd of vestal worshippers. Their salutations done, they 
rushed pell-mell, like a shower of white rose-leaves drift¬ 
ing before a gale, into the exact centre of the hall, and 
there poising bird-like, with their snowy arms upraised 


ART) ATE. 


213 


as though about to fly, they waited, .... their lovely 
faces radiant with laughter, their eyes flashing dangerous 
allurement, their limbs glistening like polished alabaster 
through the gauzy attire that betrayed rather than con¬ 
cealed their exquisite forms. Then came the soft pizzicato 
of pulled strings, . . . and a tinkling jangle of silver bells 
beating out a measured, languorous rhythm,—and with 
one accord, they all merged together in the voluptuous 
grace of a dance more ravishing, more wild and won¬ 
drous than ever poet pictured in his word-fantasies of fairy¬ 
land ! Theos drank in the intoxicating delight of the 
scene with eager, dazzled eyes and heavily beating heart, 
. . the mysterious passion of mingled love and hatred he 
felt for Lysia stole over him more strongly than ever in 
the sultry ^ air of this strange night, . . this night of 
sweet delirium, in which all that was most dangerous and 
erring in his nature woke into life and mastered his better 
will! A curious, instinctive knowledge swept across his 
mind,—namely that Sah-l'dmd > s emotions were the faithful 
reflex of his own ,—but as he had felt no anger against his 
rival in fame, so now he had no jealousy of his possible 
rival in love. Their sympathies were too closely united 
for distrust to mar the friendship so ardently begun, . . . 
nevertheless, as he fell resistlessly deeper and deeper into 
the glittering snares that were spread for his destruction, 
he was conscious of evil though he lacked force to over¬ 
come it. At any rate, he would save Sah-lhma from harm, 
he resolved, if lie could not save himself ! Meantime he 
watched the bewildering evolutions and witching en¬ 
tanglements of the gliding maze of fair faces, snowy 
bosoms and twining limbs, that palpitated to and fro 
under the soft rose-light of the dome like white flowers 
colored by the sunset, and, glancing ever and again at 
Lysia’s imperial sorceress-beauty, he thought dreamily 
... “Better the love that kills than no love at all!” 
And he thereupon gave himself up a voluntary captive to 
the sway of his own passions, determining to enjoy the 
immediate present, no matter what the future might have 
in store. Outside, the water-lilies nodded themselves to 
sleep in their shrouding, dark leaves, . . . and the un¬ 
broken smoothness of the lake spread itself out in the 
mooh like a sheet of molten gold over the spot where Nir- 
had found his ohilly rest. “ The curse of the dead 
r-ffilti shall cling!” Yes;—possibly!—-in the here- 



214 


AttDATK. 


after ! . . . but now his parting malison seemed but a 
foolish clamor against destiny, . . . . he was gone ! . . . . 
none of his late companions missed him, . . none regretted 
him—like all dead men, once dead he was soon forgotten! 


CHAPTER XIX. 

A STKANGE TEMPTATION". 

On went the dance, . . faster, faster, and ever fasterf|( 
Only the pen of some mirth-loving, rose-crowned Greek 
bard could adequately describe the dazzling, wild beauty 
and fantastic grace of those whirling fairy forms, that 
now inspired to a bacchante-like ardor, urged one another 
to fresh speed with brief soft cries of musical rapture! 
How advancing,—now retreating . . now intermingling 
all together in an undulating garland of living loveliness, 

. . .—now parting asunder with an air of sweet coquettish¬ 
ness and caprice, . . .—anon meeting again, and winding 
arm within arm,—till bending forward in attitudes of the 
tenderest entreaty, they seemed, with their languid, 
praying eyes and clasped hands, to be waiting for Love 
to soothe the breathless sweetness of their parted lips 
with kisses! The light in the dome again changed its 
hue,—from pale rose-pink it flickered to delicate amber- 
green, flooding the floor with a radiance as of watery 
moonbeams, and softening the daintily draped outlines of 
that exquisite group of human blossoms, till they looked 
like the dimly imagined shapes of Nereids floating on the 
glistening width of the sea. 

And now the extreme end of the vast hall began to 
waver to and fro as though shaken at its foundation by 
subterranean forces,—a flaring shaft of flame struck 
through it like the sweeping blade of a Titan’s sword,— 
and presently with a thunderous noise the whole wall 
split asunder, and recoiling backwards on either side, dis¬ 
closed a garden, golden with the sleepy glory of the late 
moon, and peacefully fair in all the dreamy attractiveness 
of drooping foliage, soft turf, and star-sprinkled, violet 
sky. In full view, and lit up by the reflected radiance 
flung out from the dome, a rushing waterfall made so¬ 
porous surgy music of its own. as it tumbled heattfortg inti* 



ARDATB. 


215 


a rooky recess overgrown with lotus-lilies and plumy 
fern,—here and there, small, white and gold tents or 
pavilions glimmered invitingly through the shadows cast 
by the great magnolia trees, from whose lovely half-shut 
buds balmy odors crept deliciously through the warm 
air. The sound of sweet pipes and faintly tinkling 
cymbals echoed from distant shady nooks, as though elfin 
shepherds were guarding their fairy flocks in some hidden 
corner of this ambrosial pasturage, and ever by degrees 
the light grew warmer and more mellow in tint, till it 
resembled the deep hue of an autumn, yellow sunset, 
flecked through with emerald haze. 

Another clash of cymbals ! . . this time stormily per¬ 
sistent and convincing! . . . another! . . . yet another! 
.... and then, a chime of bells,—a steady ringing, per¬ 
suasive chime, such as brings tears to the eyes of many a 
wanderer, who, hearing a similar sound when far away 
from home, straightway thinks of the village church of 
his earlier years, . . those years of the best happiness we 
ever know on earth, because we enjoy in them the bliss 
of ignorance, the glory of youth! A curious stifling 
sensation began to oppress Theos’s heart as he listened 
to those bells, . . they reminded him of such strange 
things, . . . things to which he could not give a name,— 
things foolish, yet sweet, . . odd suggestions of fair 
women who were wont to pray for those they loved, and 
who believed, . . alas, the pity of it!—that their prayers 
would be heard . . . and granted ! What was it that 
these dear, loving, credulous ones said, when in the silence 
of the night they offered up their patient supplications to 
an irresponsive Heaven ? “ Lead us not into temptation, 

but deliver us from evil ! ” Yes ! . . he remembered, 
—those were the words,—the simple-wise words that for 
positive-practical minds had neither meaning nor reason, 
—and that yet were so infinitely pathetic in their perfect 
humility and absolute trust! 

“Lead us not into temptation!” . . . He murmured 
the phrase under his breath as he gazed with straining 
eyes out into the languorous beauty of that garden-scene 
that spread its dewy, emerald glamour before him,—and 
—“ deliver us from evil! ” broke from his lips in a half¬ 
sobbing sigh, as the peal of the chiming bells softened by 
degrees into a subdued tunefulness of indistinct and 
tremulous semitones, and the clarion-clearness of the cym- 


216 


ARBATH. 


bals again smote the still air with forceful and jarring 

clangor. Then.like a rainbow-garmented Peri 

floating easefully out of some far-off sphere of sky-wonders, 
—an aerial Maiden-Shape glided into tlie full lustre of the 
varying light,—a dancer, nude save for the pearly glisten¬ 
ing veil that was carelessly cast about her dainty limbs, 
her white arms and delicate ankles being adorned with 
circlets of tiny, golden bells, which kept up a melodious 
jingle-jangle as she moved. And now began the strangest 
music,—music that seemed to hover capriciously between 
luscious melody and harsh discord,—a wild and curious 
medley of fantastic, minor suggestions in which the im¬ 
aginative soul might discover hints of tears and folly, love 
and madness. To this uncertain yet voluptuous measure 
the glittering girl-dancerleaped forward with a startlingly 
beautiful abruptness,—and halting, as it were, on the 
boundary-line between the dome and the garden beyond, 
raised her rounded arms in a snowy arch above her head, 
and so for one brief instant, looked like an exquisite angel 
ready to soar upward to her native realm. Her pause 
was a mere breathing space in duration, . . . dropping 
her arms again with a swift decision that set all the little 
bells on them clashing stormily, she straightway hurled 
herself, so to speak, into the giddy paces of a dance that 
was more like an enigma than an exercise. Round and 
round she floated wildly, like an opal-winged butterfly in 
a net of- sunbeams,—now seemingly shaken by delicate 
tremors as aspen leaves are shaken by the faintest wind, 

. . now assuming the most voluptuous eccentricities of 
posture, . . sometimes bending wistfully toward the velvet 
turf on which she trod, as though she listened to the 
chanting of demon voices underground, . . . and again, 
with her waving white hands, appearing to summon spirits 
downward from their wanderings in upper air. Her figure' 
was in perfect harmony with the seductive grace of her 
gestures,—not only her twinkling feet, but her whole 
body danced,—her very features bespoke entire abandon¬ 
ment to the frenzy of rapid movement,—her large black 
eyes flashed with something of fierceness as well as lan¬ 
guor ; her raven hair streamed behind her like a dark 
spread wing, . . her parted lips pouted and quivered with 
excitement and ardor while ever and anon she turned her 
beautiful head toward the eagerly attentive group of 
revelers who watched her performance, with an air of in- 



ARBATH. 


217 ' 

descrlbable sweetness, malice, and mockery. Again and 
again she whirled,—she flew, she sprang,—and wild crie^ 
of “Hail, IsTelida!” “Triumph to Nelida!” resounded 
uproariously through the dome. Suddenly the character 
of the music changed, . . . from an appealing murmurous 
complaint and persuasion, it rose to a martial and almost 
menacing fervor; the roll of drums and the shrill, reedy 
warbling of pipes and other fluty minstrelsy crossed the 
silvery thread of strung harps and viols, . . . the light 
from the fiery globe shot forth a new effulgence, this time 
in two broad rays, one a dazzling, pale azure, the other a 
clear, pearly white. Nelida’s graceful movements grew 
slower and slower, till she merely seemed to sway indo¬ 
lently to and fro like a mermaid rocking herself to sleep 
on the summit of a wave, . . . and then,—from among 
the veiling shadows of the trees, there stepped forth a 
man,—beautiful as a sculptured god, of magnificently 
moulded form and noble stature, clothed from chest to 
knee in a close-fitting garb of what seemed to be a thick 
network of massively linked gold. His dark hair was 
crowned with ivy, and at his belt gleamed an unsheathed 
dagger. Slowly and with courtly grace he approached 
the panting Nelida, who now, with half-closed eyes and 
slackening steps, looked as though she were drowsily 
footing her way into dreamland. He touched her snowy 
shoulder,—she started with an inimitable gesture of sur¬ 
prise, .... a smile, brilliant as morning, dawned on her 
face,—withdrawing herself slightly, she assumed an air of 
haughtily sweet disdain and refusal, . . . then capri¬ 
ciously relenting, she gave him her hand, and in another 
instant, to the sound of a joyous melody that seemed to 
tumble through the air as billows tumble on the beach, 
the dazzling pair whirled away in a giddy waltz like two 
bright flames blown suddenly together by the wind. No 
language could give an adequate idea of the marvelous 
bewitchment and beauty of their united movements, and 
as they flew over the dark smooth turf, with the flower¬ 
laden trees drooping dewily about them, and the yellow 
moonbeams like melted amber beneath their noiseless feet, 
. . . while the pale sapphire and white radiations from the 
dome, sparkling upon them aureole-wise, gave them the 
appearance of glittering birds circling through a limitless 
space of luminous and never-clouded ether. On, on! . . . 
and they scarcely touched the earth as they spun dizzily 


218 


ARDATH. 


round and round, their gracefully entwined limbs shining 
like polished ivory in the light, .... on, on!—with ever- 
increasing swiftness they sped, till their two forms seemed 
to merge into one, . . . when as though oppressed by their 
own abandonment of joy they paused lioveringly, their 
embracing arms closing round one another, their lips 
almost touching, . . their eyes reflecting each other’s 
ardent looks, . . . then, . . their figures grew less and 
less distinct, . . . they appeared to melt mysteriously into 
the azure, pearly light that surrounded them, and finally, 
like faint clouds fading on the edge of a sea-horizon, they 
vanished! The effect of this brief voluptuous dance, and 
its equally voluptuous end, was simply indescribable,—the 
young men, who had watched it through in silence and 
flushed ecstasy, now sprang from their couches with shouts 
of rapture and unrestrained excitement, and seizing the 
other dancing-maidens who had till now remained in clus¬ 
tered, half-hidden groups behind the crystalline columns 
of the hall, whirled them off into the inviting pleasaunce 
beyond, where the little white and gold pavilions peeped 
through the heavy foliage,—and before Theos, in the 
picturesque hurry and confusion of the scene, could quite 
realize what had happened, the great globe in the dome 
was suddenly extinguished, ... a firm hand closed im¬ 
periously on his own, and he was drawn along swiftly, he 
knew not whither ! 

A slight tremor shook him as he discovered that Sah- 
luma was no longer by his side .... the friend whom 
he so ardently desired to protect had gone,—and he could 
not tell where. He* glanced about him,—in the semi¬ 
obscurity he was able to discern the sheen of the lake with 
its white burden of water-lilies, and the branchy outlines 
of the moonlit garden, . . and . . yes! it was Lysia 
whose grasp lay so warmly on his arm, . . . Lysia whose 
lovely, tempting face was so perilously near his own,— 
Lysia whose smile colored the soft gloom with such allur¬ 
ing lustre! . . . Ilis heart beat,—his blood burned,—he 
strove in vain to imagine what fate was now in store for 
him. He was conscious of the beauty of the night that 
spread its star-embroidered splendors about him,—con¬ 
scious too of the vital youth and passion that throbbed 
amorously in his veins, endowing him with that keenly 
sweet, headstrong rapture which is said to come but once 
in a lifetime, and which in the very excess of its fond 


AllDATH. 


219 


folly is too often apt to bring sorrow and endless remorse 
In its trian. One moment more and he found himself in 
an exquisitely adorned pavilion of painted silk, faintly lit 
by one lamp of tenderest rose lustre, and carpeted with 
gold-spangled tissue. It was surrounded by a thicket of 
orange trees in full bloom, and the fragrance of the 
waxen-white flowers clung heavily to the air, breathing 
forth delicate suggestions of languor and sleep. The 
measured rush of the near waterfall alone disturbed the 
deep silence, with now and then the subdued and plaint¬ 
ive trill of a nightingale soothing itself to rest with its 
own song in some deep-shadowed copse. Here, on a 
couch of heaped-up, stemless roses, such as might have 
been prepared for the repose of Titania, Lysia seated her¬ 
self, while Theos stood gazing at her in fascinated won¬ 
derment and gradually increasing masterfulness of pas¬ 
sion. She looked lovelier than ever in that dim, soft, 
mingled light of rosy lamp and silver moonbeams,—her 
smile was no longer cold but warmly sweet,—her eyes had 
lost their mocking glitter, and swam in a soft languor 
that was strangely bewitching,—even the Orbed Symbol 
on her white bosom seemed for once to drowse. Her lips 
parted in a faint sigh,—a glance like fire flashed from 
beneath her black, silken lashes, .... 

“ Theos! ” she said tremulously. “ Theos! ” and waited. 

He, mute and oppressed by indistinct, hovering recol¬ 
lections, fed his gaze on her seductive fairness for one 
earnest moment longer,—then suddenly advancing he 
knelt before her, and took her unresisting hands in his. 

“ Lysia! ”—and his voice, even to his own ears, had a 
solemn as well as passionate thrill,—“Lysia, whatwouldst 
thou have with me ? Speak! . . for my heart aches with 
a burden of dark memories,—memories conjured up by 
the wizard spell of thine eyes,—those eyes so cruel-sweet 
that eeem to lure me to my soul’s ruin! Tell me—have 
we not met before? . . loved before? . . wronged each 
other and God before ? . . parted before ? . . Maybe ’tis 
but a brain-sick fancy,—nevertheless my spirit knows 
thee,—feels thee,—clings to thee,—and yet recoils from 
thee as one whom I did love in by-gone days of old! My 
thoughts of thee are strange, fair Lysia!”—and he 
pressed her warm, delicate fingers with unconscious fierce¬ 
ness,—“I would have sworn that in the Past thou didst 
betray 1 ” 


220 


ABLATE, 


Her low laugh stirred the silence into a faint, tuneful 
echo. 

“Thou foolish dreamer!” she murmured half mock¬ 
ingly, half tenderly . . “Thou art dazed with wine, 
steeped in song, bewitched with beauty, and knowest 
nothing of what thou sayest! Methinks thou art a crazed 
poet, and more fervid than Sah-luma in the mystic nature 
of thine utterance,—thou shouldst be Laureate, not he! 
What if thou wert offered his place ? . . his fame ? ” 

He looked at her, surprised and perplexed, and paused 
an instant before replying. Then he said slowly: 

“So strange a thing could never be .... for Sah- 
luma’s place, once empty, could not again be filled! I 
grudge him not his glory-laurels,—moreover, . . what is 
Fame compared to Love! ” He uttered the last words in 
a low tone as though he spoke them to himself, . . . she 
heard,—and a flash of triumph brightened her beautiful 
face. 

“Ah! . . .” and she drooped her head lower and lower 
till her dark, fragrant tresses touched his brow . . “ Then, 

. . . thou dost love me ? ” 

He started. A dull pang ached in his heart,—a chill 
of vague uncertainty and dread. Love! . . . was it love 
indeed that he felt? . . . love, . . or . . base desire? 
Love . . . The word rang in his ears with the same 
sacred suggestiveness as that conveyed by the chime of 
bells,—surely, Love was a holy thing, . . a passion pure, 
impersonal, divine, and deathless,—and it seemed to him 
that somewhere it had been written or said .... 
“ Wheresoever a man seeketh himself, there he falleth from 
Love” And he, . . did he not seek himself, and the 
gratification of his own immediate pleasure? Painfully 

he considered,.it was a supreme moment with 

him,—a moment when he felt himself to be positively 
held within the grasp of some great Archangel, who, 
turning grandly reproachful eyes upon him, demanded . . 

“Art thou the Servant of Love or the Slave of Self?” 
And while he remained silent, the silken sweet voice of 
the fairest woman he had ever seen once more sent its 
musical cadence through his brain in that fateful ques¬ 
tion : 

“ Thou dost love me ? ” 

A deep sigh broke from him, .... he moved nearer to 
her, ... he entwined her warm waist with his arms, and 



ARDATB. 


m 


stared upon her as though he drank her beauty in with 
his eyes. Up to the crowning masses of her dusky hair 
where the little serpents’ heads darted forth glisteningly, 
—over the dainty curve of her white shoulders and bosom 
where the symbolic Eye seemed to regard him with a 
sleepy weirdness,—down to the blue-veined, small feet in 
the silvery sandals, and up again to the red witchery of 
her mouth and black splendor of those twin fire-jewels 
that flashed beneath her heavy lashes—his gaze wan¬ 
dered hungrily, searchingly, passionately,—his heart beat 
with a loud, impatient eagerness like a wild thing strug¬ 
gling in its cage, but though his lips moved, he said no 
word,—she too was silent. So passed or seemed to pass 
some minutes,—minutes that were almost terrible in the 
weight of mysterious meaning they held unuttered. 
Then, with a half-smothered cry, he suddenly released 
her and sprang erect. 

“Love!” he cried, . . . “Nay!—’tis a word for chil¬ 
dren and angels!—not for me! What have I to do with 
love? . . . what hast thou? . . thou, Lysia, who dost 
make the lives of men thy sport and their torments thy 
mockery ! There is no name for this fever that consumes 
me when I look upon thee, ... no name for this unquiet 
ravishment that draws me to thee in mingled bliss and 
agony! If I must perish of mine own bitter-sweet frenzy, 
let me be slain now and most utterly, .... but Love has 
no abiding-place ’twixt me and thee, Lysia! . . Love! . . 
ah, no, no! . . speak no more of love . . it hath a charmed 
sound, recalling to my soul some glory I have lost! ” 

He spoke wildly, incoherently, scarcely knowing what 
he said, and she, half lying on her couch of roses, looked at 
him curiously, with somber, meditative eyes. A smile of 
delicate derision parted her lips. 

“ Of a truth, our late feasting hath roused in thee a 
most singular delirium! ” she murmured indolently with 
a touch of cold amusement in her accents—“ Thou dost 
seem to dwell in the Past rather than the Present! 
What ails thee? . . Come hither—closer!”—and she 
stretched out her lovely arms on which the twisted dia¬ 
mond snakes glittered in such flashing coils,—“ Come! . . 
or is thy manful guise mere feigning, and dost thou fear 
me?” 

“ Fear thee! ”—and stung to a sudden heat Theos made 
$ne bdtmd to h&r Sld6 ana seizing her slim held 


222 


ARDATR. 


them in a vise-like grip—“ So little do I fear thee, Lysis, 
so well do I know thee, that in my very caresses I would 
slay thee, couldst thou thus be slain! Thou art to me 
the living presence of an unforgotten Sin,—a sin most 
deadly sweet and unrepented of, . ... ah! why dost 
thou tempt me! ”—and he bent over her more ardently— 
“ must I not meet my death at thy hands ? . I must,—and 
more than death!—yet for thy kiss I will risk hell,—for 
one embrace of thine I will brave perdition! Ah, cruel, 
enchantress! ”—and winding his arms about her, he drew 
her close against his breast and looked down on the 
dreamy fairness of her face,—“Would there icere such a 
thing as Death for souls like mine and thine! W ould we 
might die most absolutely thus, heart against heart, 
never to wake again and loathe eath other! Who speaks 
of the cool sweetness of the grave,—the quiet ending of 
all strife,—the unbreaking seal of Fate, the deep and stir¬ 
less rest ? ... . These things are not, and never were, . . 
for the grave gives up its dead,—the strife is forever and 
ever resumed,—the seal is broken, and in all the laboring 
Universe there shall be found no rest, and no forgetfulness, 

. ah, God! . . no forgetfulness! ” A shudder ran through 
his frame,—and clasping her almost roughly, he stooped 
toward her till his lips nearly touched hers, . ... u Thou 
art accursed, Lysia,—and I share thy curse! Speak—how 
shall we cheer each other in the shadow-realm of. fiends ? 
Thou shall be Queen there, and I thy servitor,—we will 
make us merry with the griefs of others,—our music shall 
be the dropping of lost women’s tears, and the groans of 
betrayed and tortured men,—and the light around us 
shall be quenchless fire! Shall it not be so, Lysia? . . 
and tliinkest thou that we shall ever regret the loss of 
Heaven ? ” 

The words rushed impetuously from his lips; he 
thought little and cared less what he said, so long as he 
could, by speech, no matter how incoherent, relieve in 
part, the terrible oppression of vague memories that bur¬ 
dened his brain. But she, listening, drew herself swiftly 
from his embrace and stood up,—her large eyes fixed full 
upon him with an expression of wondering scorn and fear. 

“ Thou art mad ! ” she said, a quiver of alarm in her 
voice ... “ Mad as Khosrul, and all his evil-croaking 
brethren! I offer thee Love,—and thou pratest of death,— 
life is here in all the fulness of the now* for thy delight, 


ARDATrt, 


223 


and thou rarest of an immortal Hereafter which is not, 
and can never be ! Why talk thus wildly ? . . . why gaze 
on me with so distraught a countenance ? But an hour 
agone, thou wert the model of a cold discretion and quiet 
valor,—thus I had judged thee worthy of my favor—favor 
sought by many, and granted to few, . . . but an thou 
dost wander amid such chaotic and unreasoning fancies, 
thou canst not serve me,—nor therefore canst thou win 
the reward that would otherwise have awaited thee.” . . . 

Here she paused,—a questioning, keen under-glance 
flashed from beneath her dark lashes, . . . he, however, 
with pained, wistful eyes raised steadfastly to hers, gave 
no sign of apology or contrition for the disconnected 
strangeness of his recent outburst. Only he becamS 
gradually conscious of an inward, growing calm,—as 
though the Divine Voice that had once soothed the angry 
waves of Galilee were now hushing his turbulent emo¬ 
tions with a soft “ Peace be still! ” She watched him 
closely, . and all at once apparently rendered impatient 
by his impassive attitude, she came coaxingly toward him, 
and laid one soft hand on his shoulder. 

“ Canst thou not be happy, Theos ? ” she whispered 
gently—“ Happy as other men are, when loved as thou 
art loved ?” 

His upturned gaze rested on the glittering serpents’ 
heads that crowned her dusky tresses,—then on the great 
Eye that stared watchfully between her white breasts. 
A strong tremor shook him, and he sighed. 

“ Happy as other men are, when they love and are de¬ 
ceived in love ! ”—he said. . “ Yes, even so, Lysia,—I can 
be happy ! ” 

She threw one arm about him. “ Thou shalt not be 
deceived ”—she murmured quickly,—“ Thou shalt be 
honored above the noblest in the realm, . . thy dearest 
hopes shall be fulfilled, . . thy utmost desires shall be 
granted, .... riches, power, fame,—all shall be thine,— 
if thou wilt do my bidding ! ” 

She uttered the last words with slow' and meaning 
emphasis. He met her eager, burning looks quietly, 
almost coldly,—the curious numb apathy of his spirit 
increased, and when he spoke, his voice was low and 
faint like the voice of one who speaks unconsciously in 
his sleep. 

“ What canst thou ask that I will not grant ? ” he said 


224 


ABDAT^H. 


listlessly . . “Is it not as it was in the old time,—thou to 
command, and I to obey ? . . Speak, fair Queen !—how can 
I serve thee ? ” 

Her answer came, swift and fierce as the hiss of a snake: 

“ Kill Sah-lttma / ” 

The brief sentence leaped into his brain with the swift, 
fiery action of some burning drug,—a red mist rose to his 
eyes,—pushing her fiercely from him, he started to his feet 
in a bewildered, sick horror. Kill Sah-Mma ! . . . kill the 
gracious, smiling, happy creature whose every minute of 
existence was a joy,—kill the friend he loved,—the poet he 
worshipped ! . . . . Kill him ! . . ah God ! . . never! . . 
never ! . . . He staggered backward dizzily,—and Lysia 
with a sudden stealthy spring, like that of her favorite 
tigress, threw herself against his breast and looked up at 
him, her splendid eyes ablaze with passion, her black hair 
streaming, her lips curved in a cruel smile, and the hate¬ 
ful Jewel on her breast seeming to flash with ferocious 
vindictiveness. 

“ Kill him! ” she repeated eagerly—“ Now—in his sot¬ 
tish slumber,—now when he hath lost sight of his Poet- 
mission in the hot fumes of wine,—now, when, despite 
his genius, he hath made of himself a thing lower than 
the beasts! Kill him! . .—I will keep good council, and 
none shall ever know who did the deed ! He loves me, 
and I weary of his love, .... I would have him dead— 
dead as Nir-jalis! . . . . hut were he to drain the Silver 
Nectar, the whole city would cry out upon me for his loss, 
—therefore he may not perish so. But an thou wilt slay 
him, .... see ! ” and she clung to Theos with the fierce 
tenacity of some wild animal—“ All this beauty of mine, 
is thine !—thy days and nights shall be dreams of rapture, 
—thou shalt be second to none in Al-Kyris,—thou shalt 
rule with me over King and people,—and we will make the 
land a pleasure-garden for our love and joy ! Here is thy 
weapon . —and she thrust into his hand a dagger,—the 

very dagger her slave Gazra had deprived him of, when 
by its prompt use he might have mercifully ended the 
cruel torments of Nir-jalis,—“Let thy stroke he strong 
and unfaltering, . . . stab him to the heart,—the cold, 
cold, selfish heart that has never ached with a throb of 

E ity ! . . kill him!—’tis an easy task,—for lo! how fast 
e sleeps! ” 

And suddenly throwing back a rich gold curtain that 




Alii) ATI!. 


225 


depended from On© side of the painted pavilion, she dis¬ 
closed a small interior chamber hung with amber and 
crimson, where, on a low, much-tumbled couch covered 
with crumpled glistening draperies, lay the King’s Chief 
Minstrel,—the dainty darling of women,—the Laureate of 
the realm, sunk in a heavy, drunken stupor, so deep as to 
be almost death-like. Theos stared upon him amazed and 
bewildered, .... how came he there? Had he heard 
any of the conversation that had just passed between 
Lysia and himself ? . . . Apparently not, . . . he seemed 
bound as by chains in a stirless lethargy. His posture 
was careless, yet uneasy,—his brilliant attire was torn 
and otherwise disordered,—and some of his priceless 
jewels had fallen on the couch, and gleamed here and 
there like big stray dewdrops. His face was deeply 
flushed, and his straight dark brows were knit frowning- 
ly, his breathing was hurried and irregular, . . . one arm 
was thrown above his head,—the other hung down nerve¬ 
lessly, the relaxed fingers hovering immediately above a 
costly jewelled cup that had dropped from his clasp,—two 
emptied wine flagons lay cast on the ground beside him, 
and he had evidently experienced tne discomfort and 
feverous heat arising from intoxication, for his silken vest 
was loosened as though for greater ease and coolness, thus 
leaving the smooth breadth of his chest bare and fully 
exposed. To this Lysia pointed with a fiendish glee, as 
she pulled Theos forward. 

“ Strike now! ” she whispered . . “ Quick . . why dost 
thou hesitate ? ” 

He looked at her fixedly, . . . the previous hot pas¬ 
sion he had felt for her froze like ice within his veins, .... 
her fairness seemed no longer so distinctly fair, . . . the 

witching radiance of her eyes had lost its charm,. 

and he motioned her from him with a silent gesture of 
stern repugnance. Catching sight of the sheeny glimmer 
of the lake through the curtained entrance of the tent, he 
made a sudden spring thither—dashed aside the draper¬ 
ies, and flung the dagger he held, far out towards the 
watery mirror. It whirled glittering through the air, and 
fell with a quick splash into the silver-rippled depths,— 
and, gravely contented, he turned upon her, dauntless and 
serene in the consciousness of power. 

“ Thus do I obey thee ! ” he said, in firm tones that 
thrilled through and through with scorn and indignation, 
15 -- 



226 


ARDATH. 


—“ Thou evil Beauty! . . thou fallen Fairness! . . Kill 
Sah-luma ? . . . Nay, sooner would I kill myself . . or 
thee! His life is a glory to the world, . . his death shall 
never profit thee! ” . . . 

For one instant a lurid anger blazed in her face,—the 
next her features hardened themselves into a rigidly cold 
expression of disdain, though her eyes widened with 
wrathful wonder. A low laugh broke from her lips. 

“ Ah! ” she cried—“ Art thou angel or demon that thou 
darest defy me ? Thou shouldst be either or both, to ar¬ 
ray thyself in opposition against the High Priestess of 
Nagaya, whose relentless Will hath caused empires to tot¬ 
ter and thrones to fall! His life a glory to the world ? . 
and she pointed to Sah-luma’s recumbent figure with a 
gesture of loathing and contempt, . . . “ His f . . . the 
life of a drunken voluptuary ? . . a sensual egotist ? . . a 
poet who sees no genius save his own, and who condemns 
all vice, save that which he himself indulges in! A lau¬ 
relled swine ! . . a false god of art! . . and for him thou 
dost reject Me ! . . ah, thou fool! ” and her splendid eyes 
shot forth resentful fire . . “ Thou rash, unthinking, head¬ 
strong fool! thou knowest not what thou hast lost! Aye, 
guard thy friend as thou wilt,—thou dost guard him at 
thine own peril! . . . think not that he, ... or thou, . . . 
shall escape my vengeance! What!—dost thou play the 
heroic with me ? . . thou who art Man, and therefore no 
hero ? . . . For men are cowards all, except when in the 
heat of battle they follow the pursuit of their own brief 

glory !.poltroons and knaves in spirit, incapable 

of resisting their own passions !.and wilt thou 

pretend to be stronger than the rest? . . Wilt thou take 
up arms against thyself and Destiny ? Thou madman ! ” 
—and her lithe form quivered with concentrated rage— 
“ Thou puny wretch that dost first clutch at, and then re¬ 
fuse my love !—thou who dost oppose thy miserable force 
to the Fate that hunts thee down!—thou who dost gaz > 
at me with such grave, child-foolish eyes ! . . Beware,. „ 
beware of me ! I hate thee as I hate all men! .... I w ill 
humble thee as I have humbled the proudest of thy sex! 

. .—wheresoever thou goest I will track thee out and tor¬ 
ture thee! . . and thou shalt die—miserably, lingeringly, 
horribly,—as I would have every man die could I fulfil my 
utmost heart’s desire! To-night, be free! . . . . but to¬ 
morrow as thou livest, I will claim thee! ” 






ARDATEt. 


227 


Like an enraged Queen she stood,—one white, jewelled 
arm stretched forth menacingly,—her bosom heaving, and 
her face aflame with wrath, but Theos, leaning against 
Sah-lffma’s couch, heard her with as much impassiveness 
as though her threatening voice were but the sound of an 
idle wind. Only, when she ceased, he turned his un¬ 
troubled gaze calmly and full upon her,—and then,—to his 
own infinite surprise she shivered and shrank backwards, 
while over her countenance flitted a vague, undefinable, 
almost spectral expression of terror. He saw it, and swift 
words came at once to his lips,—words that uttered them¬ 
selves without premeditation. 

“ To-morrow, Lysia, thou slialt claim nothing! ” he 
said in a still, composed voice that to himself had some¬ 
thing strange and unearthly in its tone . . . .“Not even a 
grave! Get thee hence! . . . pray to thy gods if thou 
hast any,—for truly there is need of prayer! Thou shalt 
not harm Sah-luma, . . his love for thee may be his present 
curse,—but it shall not work his future ruin! As for 
me, .... though canst not slay me, Lysia,—seeing that 
to myself I am dead already! . . . dead, yet alive in 
thought, . . . and thou dost now seem to my soul but the 
shadow of a past Crime, .... the ghost of a temptation 
overcome and baffled! Ah, thou sweet Sin!” here he 
suddenly moved toward her and caught her hands hard, 
looking fearlessly the while at her flushed half-troubled 
face,—“ I do confess that I have loved thee, . . I do own 
that I have found thee fair! . . . but now—now that I see 
thee as thou art, in all the nameless horror of thy beauty, 
I do entreat,” . . and his accents sank to a low yet fer¬ 
vent supplication—“I do entreat the most high God that 
I may be released from thee forever! ” 

She gazed upon him with dilated, terrified eyes, . . . . 
and he dimly wondered, as he looked, why she should seem 
to fear him ?—Not a word did she utter in reply, . . step 
by step she retreated from him, .... her glittering, 
exquisite form grew paler and more indistinct in outline 
—and presently, catching at the gold curtain that divided 
the two pavilions, she paused . . . still regarding him 
steadfastly. An evil smile curved her lips, . . a smile 
of cold menace and derisive scorn, . . . the iris-colored 
jewel on her breast darted forth vivid flashes . of azure, 
and green and gray, . . , the snakes in her hair seemed 
to rise and hiss at him ? , / and therewith an awful 



228 


art> ate. 


unspoken threat written resolvedly on every line of her 
fair features, . . she let the gold draperies fall softly,— 
and so disappeared, . . . leaving him alone with Sah- 
luma! 

He stood for a moment half amazed, half perplexed,— 
v then, drawing a deep breath, he pushed the clustering 
hair off his forehead with an unconscious gesture of 
relief. She was gone! . . and he felt as though he had 
gained a victory over something, though he knew not 
what. The cold air from the lake blew refreshingly on 
his heated brow, . . and a thousand odors from orange- 
flowers and jessamine floated caressingly about him. 
The night was very still,— and approaching the opening 
of the tent, he looked out. There, in the soft sky gloom, 
moved the majestic procession of the Undiscovered 
Worlds seeming to be no more than bright dots on the 

measureless expanse of pure ether,.there, low on 

the horizon, the yellow moon swooned languidly down¬ 
wards in a bed of fleecy cloud,—the drowsy chirrup of 
a dreaming bird'came softly now and again from the 
deep-branched shadows of the heavy foliage,—and the 
lilies on the surface of the lake nodded mysteriously 
among the slow ripples, like wise, white elves whispering 
io one another some secret of fairyland. And Sah-luma 
still slept, . . and still that puzzled and weary frown 
darkened the fairness of his broad brow, . . . and, coming 
back to his side, Theos stood watching him with a yearn¬ 
ing and sorrowful wistfulness. Gathering up the jewels 
that had fallen out of his dress, he replaced them one by 
one,—and strove to re-arrange the tossed and tumbled 
garb as best he might. While he was thus occupied his 
hand happened to touch the tablet that hung by a silver 
chain from the Laureate’s belt,—he glanced at it, . .it was 
covered with fine writing, and turning it more toward tho 
light, he soon made out four stanzas, perfectly rhymed and 
smoothly flowing as a well-modulated harmony. He read 
them slowly with a faint smile,—he recognized them as 
his own ! — they were part of a poem he had long ago 
begun, yet have never finished! And now Sah-luma had 
the same idea! . . moreover he had chosen the same 
rhythm, the same words ! . . . well! . . after all, what did 
it matter ? Nothing, he felt, so far as he was concerned, 
—he had ceased to care for his own personality or interests, 
—BdMtima had become dearer to him than himself/ 



ABB ATE. 


229 


His immediate anxiety was centered in the question of 
how to rouse his friend from the torpor in which he lay, 
and get him out of this voluptuous garden of delights, be¬ 
fore any lurking danger could overtake him. Full of 
this intention, he presently ventured to draw aside the' 
curtain that concealed Lysia’s pavilion, . . and looking 
in, he saw to his great relief, that she was no longer there. 
Her couch of crushed roses scented the place with heavy 
fragrance, and the ruby lamp was still burning, . . but 
she herself had departed. Now was the time for 
escape!—thought Theos—now,—while .she was absent,— 
now, if Sah-luma could .be persuaded to come away, he 
might reach his own palace in safety, and once there, he 
could be warned of the death that threatened him 
through the treachery of the woman he loved. But 
would he believe in, or accept, the warning? At any 
rate some effort must be made to rescue him, and Theos, 
without more ado, bent above him and called aloud : 

“Sah-luma! . . Wake! Sah-luma!” 


CHAPTER XX. 

THE PASSAGE OF THE TOMBS. 

Sah-luma stirred uneasily and smiled in his sleep. 

“ More wine! ” he muttered thickly—“ More, . . more 
I say ! What! wilt thou stint the generous juice that 
warms my soul to song ? Pour, . . . pour out lavishly ! 
I will mix the honey of thy luscious lips with the crim¬ 
son bubbles on this goblet’s brim, and the taste thereof 
shall be as nectar dropped from paradise! Nay, nay! I 
will drink to none but Myself,—to the immortal bard 
Sah-luma,—Poet of poets,—named first and greatest on 
the scroll of Fame! . . aye, ’tis a worthy toast and merits 
a deeper draught of mellow vintage! Fill ... fill 
again!—the world is but the drunken dream of a God 
Poet and we but the mad revellers of a shadow day! 
’Twill pass—’twill pass, ... let us enjoy ere all is done, 
—drown thought in wine, and love, and music, . . . wine 
and music . . . .” 

His voice broke in a short, smothered sigh,—Theos sur¬ 
veyed him with mingled impatience, pity, and something 


230 


ABB ATE. 


of repulsion, and there was a warm touch of indignant 
remonstrance in his tone when he called again : 

“ Sali-luma! Rouse thee, man, for very shame’s sake! 
Art thou dead to the honor of thy calling, that thou dost 
wilfully consent to be the victim of wine-bibbing and 
debauchery ? O thou frail soul! how hast thou quenched 
the heavenly essence within thee! . . why wilt thou be 
thus self-disgraced and all inglorious ? Sah-luma! Sah- 
luma! ”—and he shook him violently by the arm—“Up, 
—up, thou truant to the faith of Art! I will not let thee 
drowse the hours away in such unseemliness, . . . wake! 
for the night is almost past,—the morning is at hand, and 
danger threatens thee,—wouldst thou be found here 
drunk at sunrise ? ” 

This time Sah-luma was thoroughly disturbed, and with 
a half uttered oath he sat up, pushed his tumbled hair 
from his brows, and stared at his companion in blinking, 
sleepy wonderment. 

“ Now, by my soul! . . thou art a most unmannerly 
ruffian! ” he said pettishly, yet with a vacant smile, 
—“ what question didst thou bawl unmusically in mine 
ear? Will I be drunk at sunrise? Aye! . . . and at 
sunset too, Sir Malapert, if that will satisfy thee ! Hast 
thou been grudged sufficient wine that thou dost envy me 
my slumber? What dost thou here? . . . where hast 
thou been?” . . and, becoming more conscious of his sur¬ 
roundings he suddenly stood up, and catching hold of 
Theos to support himself, gazed upon him suspiciously 
with very dim and bloodshot eyes . . . “ Art thou fresh 
from the arms of the ravishing Nelida ? ... is she not 
fair ? a choice morsel for a lover’s banquet ? . . . Doth she 
not dance a madness into the veins? . . . aye, aye!— 
she was reserved for thee, my jolly roysterer! but thou 
art not the first nor wilt thou be the last that hath revelled 
in her store of charms ! No matter ! ”—and he laughed 
foolishly . . . “ Better a wild dancer than a tame prude! ” 
Here he looked about him in confused bewilderment . . 
“ Where is Lysia ? Was she not here a moment since ? . .” 
and he staggered toward the neighboring pavilion, 
and. dashed the dividing curtain aside . . “ Lysia ! . . 
Lysia! . . ” he shouted noisily,—then, receiving no an¬ 
swer, he flung himself down on the vacant couch of roses, 
and gathering up a handful of the crumpled flowers, kissed 
them passionately,—“ The witch has flown ! ” he said, 


ARBATR. 


231 

laughing again that mirthless, stupid laugh as he spoke 
—“ She doth love to tantalize me thus ! . . Tell me! what 
dost thou think of her ? Is she not a peerless moon of 
womanhood? . . . doth she not eclipse all known or imag¬ 
inable beauty ? . . . Aye! . . and I will tell thee a secret, 
—she is mine!—mine from the dark tresses down to the 
dainty feet! .... mine, all mine, so long as I shall 
please to call her so ! . . —notwithstanding that the fool¬ 
ish people of Al-Kyris think she is impervious to love, 
self-centered, holy and ‘ immaculate ’! Bah ! . . as if a 
woman ever was 4 immaculate ’ ! But mark you ! . . 
though she loves me,—me, crowned Laureate of the realm, 
she loves no other man! And why ? Because no other 
man is found half so worthy of love! All men must love 
her, . . Nirjalis loved her, and he is dead because of 
overmuch presumption, . . and many there be who shall 
still die likewise, for love of her, . but I am her chosen 
and elected one,—her faith is mine !—her heart is mine,— 
her very soul is mine !—mine I would swear though all 
the gods of the past, present, and future denied her 
constancy! ” 

Here his uncertain, wandering gaze met the grave, 
pained, and almost stern regard of Theos. “Why dost 
thou stare thus owl-like upon me ? ”—he demanded irri¬ 
tably . . “Art thou not my friend and worshipper? Wilt 
preach? Wilt moralize on the folly of the time,—the 
vices of the age ? Thou lookest it,—but prithee hold thy 
peace an thou lovest me!—we can but live and die and 
there’s an end, .... all’s over with the best and wisest 
of us soon,—let us be merry while we may! ” 

And he tossed a cluster of roses playfully in the air, 
catching them as they fell again in a soft shower of severed 
fluttering pink and white petals. Theos listened to his 
rambling, unguarded words with a sense of acute personal 
sorrow. Here was a man, young, handsome, and endowed 
with the rarest gift of nature, a great poetic genius,—a 
man who had attained in early manhood the highest 
worldly fame together with the friendship of a king, and 
the love of a people, . . yet what was he in himself ? A 
mere petty Egoist, ... a poor deluded fool, the unresist¬ 
ing prey of his own passions, . . the besotted slave of a 
treacherous woman and the voluntary degrader of his own 
life! What was the use of Genius, then, if it could not 
aid one to overcome Self,. . what the worth of Fame, if it 



232 


ARDATR. 


were not made to serve as a bright incentive and noble ex¬ 
ample to others of less renown ? As this thought passed 
across his mind, Theos sighed, ... he felt curiously con¬ 
science-stricken, ashamed, and humiliated, through Sah- 
luma, and solely for Sah-luma’s sake! At present, however, 
his chief anxiety was to get his friend safely out of Lysia’s 
pavilion before she should return to it, and his spirit 
chafed within him at each moment of enforced delay. 

“Come, come, Sah-luma!” he said at last, gently, yet 
with persuasive earnestness . . “ Come away from this 
place, . . the feast is over,—the fair ones are gone, . . . why 
should we linger ? Thou art half-asleep,—believe me ’tis 
time thou wert home and at rest. Lean upon me, .... 
so! that is well! ”—this, as the other rose unsteadily to 
his feet and lurched heavily against him, . . “ Now let me 
guide thee,—though of a truth I know not the way 
through this wondrous woodland maze, . . . canst tell me 
whither we should turn ? . . or hast thou no remembrance 
of the nearest road to thine own dwelling?”— 

Thus speaking, he managed to lead his stupefied com 
panion out of the tent into the cool, dewy garden, where, 
Reeling somewhat refreshed by the breath of the night 
wind blowing on his face, Sah-luma straightened himself, 
and made an absurd attempt to look exceedingly dignified. 

“Nay, an thou wilt depart with such scant ceremony ” 
—he grumbled peevishly—“ get thee thence and find out 

the road as best thou mayest!.why should I aid 

thee? For myself I am well contented here to remain 
and sleep,—no better couch can the Poet have than this 
violet-scented moss ”—and he waved his arm with a gran¬ 
diloquent gesture,—“ no grander canopy than this star-be¬ 
sprinkled heaven! Leave me,—for my eyes are wondrous 
heavy, and I would fain slumber undisturbed till the break 
of day ! By my soul, thou art a rough companion! . ” 
and he struggled violently to release himself from Theos’s 
resolute and compelling grasp. . “ Where wouldst thou 
drag me?” 

“ Out of danger and the shadow of death ! ” replied Theos 
firmly. . “ Thy life is threatened, Sah-lilma, and I will not 
see thee slain! If thou canst not guard thyself, then I 
must guard thee! . . Come, delay no longer, 1 beseech 
thee !—do I not love thee, friend ?—and would I urge thee 
thus without good reason? O thou misguided soul! 
thou dost most ignorantly court destruction, but if my 



ABDATH. 23 $ 

strength can shield thee, thou shalt not die before thy 
time! ” 

And he hurried his pace, half leading, half carrying the 
reluctant poet, who, however, was too drowsy and lethargio 
to do more than feebly resent his action,—and thus they 
went together along a broad path that seemed to extend 
itself in a direct line straight across the grounds, but 
which in reality turned and twisted about through all 
manner of perplexing nooks and corners,—now under 
trees so closely interwoven that not a glimpse of the sky 
could be seen through the dense darkness of the crossed 
boughs,—now by gorgeous banks of roses, pale yellow 
and white, that looked like frozen foam in the dying glit¬ 
ter of the moon,—now beneath fairy-light trellis work, 
overgrown with jasamine, and peopled by thousands of 
dancing fire-flies,—while at every undulating bend or 
sharp angle in the road, Theos’s heart beat quickly in 
fear lest they should meet some armed retainer or spy 
of Lysia’s, who might interrupt their progress, or perhaps 
peremptorily forbid their departure. Nothing of the kind 
happened, or seemed likely to happen,—the splendid 
gardens were all apparently deserted,—and not a living 
soul was anywhere to be seen. Presently through an 
archway of twisted magnolia stems, Theos caught a 
glimpse of the illuminated pool with the marble nymph 
in its centre which had so greatly fascinated him on his 
first arrival,—and he pressed forward eagerly, knowing 
that now they could not be very far from the gates of 
exit. All at once the tall figure of a man clad in complete 
armor came into sudden view between some heavily droop¬ 
ing boughs,—it stood out for a second, and then hurriedly 
disappeared, muffling its face in a black mantle as it fled. 
Not, however, before Theos had recognized those dark, 
haughty features, those relentless brows, and that, stem 
almost lurid smile! . . . and with a quick convulsive 
movement he grasped his companion’s arm. 

“ Hist, Sah-luma! ” he whispered . . . “ Saw you not 
the King?” 

Sah-luma started as though he had received a dagger 
thrust,. . his very lips turned pale in the moonlight. 

“ The King?” he echoed* with an accent of incredulous 
amazement . . . “The King? . . thou art mad! . . it 
could not be! Where didst thou see him ?” 

Ill silence Theos pointed tQ the dark shrubbery. Sail- 


234 


ARDATH. 


luma shook himself free of his friend’s hold, and, stand¬ 
ing erect, gazed in the direction indicated, with an ex¬ 
pression of mingled fear, distrust, bewilderment, and 
wrath on his features, ... he was suddenly but effectually 
sobered, and all the delicate beauty of his face came back 
like the rich tone of a tine picture restored. His hand fell 
instinctively toward the jewelled hilt of the poniard at his 
belt, 

“The King?” he muttered under his breath, . . . 

“ The King ? . . . Then . . is Khosrul right after all, and 
must one learn wisdom from a madman ?... By my 
soul! . . If I thought... .” Here he checked himself 
abruptly and turned upon Theos . . . “ Kay, thou art 
deceived! ” he said with a forced smile . . “ ’Twas not 
the King! . . ’twas some rash, unknown intruder whose 
worthless life must pay the penalty of trespass ! ”—and 
he drew his flashing weapon from his sheath . . “ This 
shall unmask him! . . . And thou, my friend, get thee 
away and home, . . . fear nothing for my safety! ... go 
hence and quickly ; I’ll follow thee anon! ” 

And before Theos could utter a word of warning, he 
plunged impetuously into the innermost recess of the 
dense foliage behind which the mysterious armed figure 
had just vanished, and was instantly lost to sight. 

“ Sah-luma! . . Sah-luma! ”—called Theos passionately 
. . . “Come back! Whether wilt thou go?. . . Sah- 
luma ! ” 

Only silence answered him,—silence rendered even 
more profound by the subdued, faint rustling of the wind 
among the leaves,—and agitated by all manner of vague 
alarms and dreary forebodings, he stood still for a moment 
hesitating as to whether he should follow his friend or 
no. Some instinct stronger than himself, however, per¬ 
suaded him that it would be best to continue his road,— 
he therefore went on slowly, hoping against hope that 
Sah-luma might still rejoin him,—but herein he was dis¬ 
appointed. He waited a little while near the illuminated 
water, dreamily eying the beautiful marble nymph 
crowned with her wreath of amethystine flame, . . she 
resembled Lysia somewhat, he thought,—only this was 
a frozen fairness, while the peerless charms of the cruel 
High Priestess were those of living flesh and blood. Yet 
the remembrance of all the tenderly witching loveliness 
/that might have been his, had he slain Sah-luma at her 


ARDATB. 


235 


bidding, now moved him neither to regret nor lover’s pas¬ 
sion, but only touched his spirit with a sense of bitter re¬ 
pulsion, . . while a strange pity for the Poet Laureate’s 
infatuation awoke in him,—pity that any man could be so 
reckless, blind, and desperate as to love a woman for her 
mere perishable beauty of body, and never care to know 
whether the graces of her mind were equal to the graces 
of her form. 

“ We men have yet to learn the true meaning of love,”— 
he mused rather sadly—“ We consider it from the selfish 
standpoint of our own unbridled passions,—we willingly 
accept a fair face as the visible reflex of a fair soul, and 
nine times out of ten, we are utterly mistaken! We begin 
wrongly, and we therefore end miserably,—we should love 
a woman for what she is , and not for what she appears to 
be. Yet, how are we to fathom her nature? how shall 
we guess, . . how can we decide ? Are we fooled by an 
evil fate ? —or do we in our loves and marriages deliberately 
fool ourselves ? ” 

He pondered the question hazily without arriving at 
any satisfactory answer, . . and as Sah-luma still did 
not return, he resumed his slow, unguided, and solitary 
way. He presently found himself in a close boscage of 
tall trees straight as pines, and covered with very large, 
thick leaves that exhaled a peculiarly faint odor,—and 
here, pausing abruptly, he looked anxiously about him. 
This was certainly not the avenue through which he had 
previously come with Sah-luma, . . and he soon felt un¬ 
comfortably convinced that he had somehow taken the 
wrong path. Perceiving a low iron gate standing open 
in front of him, he went thither and discovered a steep 
stone staircase leading down, down into what seemed to 
be a vast well, black and empty as a starless midnight. 
Peering doubtfully into this gloomy pit, he fancied he 
saw a small, blue flame wavering to and fro at the bottom, 
and, pricked by a sudden impulse of curiosity, he made 
up his mind to descend. 

He went down slowly and cautiously, counting each 
step as he placed his foot upon it, . . . there were a 
hundred steps in all, and at the end the light he had seen 
completely vanished, leaving him in the most profound 
darkness* Confused and startled, he stretched out bis 
hands instinctively as a blind man might do, and thus 
came in contact with something sharp, pointed, and iej 



236 


ABB ATB. 


cold like the frozen talon of a dead bird. Shuddering at 
the touch, he recoiled,—and was about to try and grope 
his way up the stairs again, when the light once more 
appeared, this time casting a thin, slanting, azure blaze 
through the dense shadows,—and he was able gradually 
to realize the horrors of the place into which he had un¬ 
wittingly adventured. One faint cry escaped his lips,— 
and then he was mute and motionless,—chilled to the 
very heart. A great awe and speechless dread over¬ 
whelmed him, . . for he—a living man and fully con¬ 
scious of life—stood alone, surrounded by a ghastly 
multitude of skeletons, skeletons bleached white as ivory 
and glistening with a smooth, moist polish as of pearl. 
Shoulder to shoulder, arm against arm, they stood, placed 
upright, and as close together as possible,—every bony 
hand held a rusty spear,—and on every skull gleamed a 
small metal casque inscribed with hieroglyphic characters. 
Thousands of eyeless sockets seemed to turn toward him 
in blank yet questioning wonder, suggesting awfully to 
his mind that the eyes might still be there, fallen far 
back into the head from whence they yet saw , themselves 
unseen,—thousands of grinning jaws seemed to mock at 
him, as he leaned half-fainting against the damp, weed- 
grown portal,—he fancied he could hear the derisive 
laugh of death echoing horribly through those dimly 
distant arches! This, . . “this, he thought wildly, was 
the sequel to his brief and wretched history! . . for this 
one end he had wandered out of the ways of his former 
life, and forgotten almost all he had ever known,—here 
was the only poor finale an all-wise and all-potent God 
could contrive for the close of His marvelous symphony 
of creative Love and Light! . . Ah, cruel, cruel! Then 
there was no justice, no pity, no compensation in all the 
width and breadth of the Universe, if Death indeed was 
the end of everything!—and God or the great Force 
called by that name was nothing but a Tyrant and 
Torturer of His helpless creature, Man! So thinking, 
dully and feebly, he pressed his aand on his aching eyes, 
to shut out the sight of that grim crowd of fleshless, 
rigid Shapes that everywhere confronted him, .... the 
darkness of the place seemed to descend upon him crush- 
ibgly, and, reeling forward, he would have fallen in a 
gwopu, had not a strong hand suddenly grasped his aim 
and Supported him firmly upright. 


ARDATH. 


237 ' 

u How now, my son! ”—said a grave, musical voice 
that had in it a certain touch of compassion, . , “ What 
ails thee? . . and why art thou here? Art thou con¬ 
demned to die! . . or dost thou seek an escape from 
death?” 

Making an effort to overcome the sick giddiness that 
confused his brain, he looked up,—a bright lamp flared in 
his eyes, contrasting so dazzlingly with the surrounding 
gloom that for a moment he was half-blinded by its 
brilliancy, but presently steadying his gaze he was 
able to discern the dark outline of a tall, black-garmented 
figure standing beside him,—the figure of an old man, 
whose severe and dignified aspect at first reminded him 
somewhat of the prophet Khosrul. Only that Khosrul’s 
rugged features had borne the impress of patient, long- 
endured, bitter suffering, and the personage who now 
confronted him had a face so calm and seriously impas¬ 
sive that it might have been taken for that of one newly 
dead, from whose lineaments all traces of earthly passion 
had forever been smoothed away. 

“ Art thou condemned to die , or dost thou seek an escape 
from death ? ” The question had, or seemed to have, a 
curious significance,—it reiterated itself almost noisily in 
his ears,—his mind was troubled by vague surmises and 
dreary forebodings,—speech was difficult to him, and his 
lips quivered pathetically, when he at last found force to 
frame his struggling thoughts into language. 

“ Escape from death! ” he murmured, gazing wildly 
around as he spoke, on the vast skeleton crowd that en¬ 
circled him . . “ Old man, dost thou also talk of dream¬ 
like impossibilities ? Wilt thou also maintain a creed of 
hope when naught awaits us but despair ? Art thou 
fooled likewise with the glimmering Soul-mirage of a 
never-to-be-realized future ? . . . Escape from death ? . . 
How ?—and where! Art not these dry and vacant forms 
sufficiently eloquent of the all-omnipotence of Decay ?” . . 
and he caught liis unknown companion almost fiercely by 
the long robe, while a sound that was half a sob and half 
a sigh came from his aching throat . . “ Lo you, how 
emptily they stare upon us! ” . . how frozen-piteous is 
their smile! . . Poor, poor frail shapes! . . nay !—who 
would think these hollow shells of bone had once been 
men ! Men with strong hearts, warm-flowing blood, and 
throbbing pulses, . . . men of thought and action, who 


238 


ARRATU. 


maybe did most nobly bear themselves in life upon the 
earth, and yet are now forgotten, . . men—ah, great 
Heaven! can it be that these most rueful, loathly things 
have loved, and hoped, and labored through all their days 
for such an end as this! Escape from death! . . alas, 
there is no escape, . . . ’tis evident we all must die, . . 
die, and with dust-quenched eyes unlearn our knowledge 
of the sun, the stars, the marvels of the universe,—for us 
# no more shall the flowers bloom or the sweet birds sing; 
# the poem of the world will write itself anew in every 
roseate flushing of the dawn,—but we,—we who have 
joyed therein,—we who have sung the praises of the 
light, the harmonies of wind and sea, the tunefulness of 
woods and fields,—we whose ambitious thoughts have 
soared archangel-like through unseen empyreans of space, 
there to drink in a honeyed hope of Heaven,—we shall be 
but dead! . . mute, cold, and stirless as deep, undug 
stones, .... dead! . . Ah God, thou Utmost Cruelty! ” 
—and in a sudden access of grief and passion he raised 
one hand and shook it aloft with a menacing gesture— 
“ Would I might look upon Thee face to face, and rebuke 
Thee for Thy merciless injustice! ” 

He spoke wildly as though possessed by a sort of 
frenzy,—his unknown companion heard him with an air 
of mild and pitying patience. 

“ Peace—peace! Blaspheme not the Most High, my 
son! ” he said gently, yet reproachfully. “ Distraught as 
thou dost seem with some strange misery, and sick with 
fears, forbear thine ignorant fury against Him who hath 
for love’s dear sake alone created thee. Control thy soul 
in patience!—surely thou art afflicted by thine own vain 
and false imaginings, which for a time contort and 
darken the clear light of truth. Why dost thou thus dis¬ 
quiet thyself concerning the end of life, seeing that verily 
it hath no end ? . . and that what we men call death is not a 
conclusion but merely a new beginning ? Waste not thy 
pity on these skeleton forms,—the empty dwellings 
of martial spirits long since fled, . . as well weep over 
fallen husks of corn from which the blossoms have sprung 
right joyously upward! This world is but our roadside 
hostelry, wherein we heaven-bound sojourners tarry for 
one brief, restless night,—why regret the loss of the poor 
refreshment offered thee here, when there are a thousand 
better feasts awaiting thee elsewhere on thy way? 


ARDATU. 


239 


Come,—let me lead thee hence, . . . this place is known 
as the Passage of the Tombs,—and communicates with 
the Inner Court of the Sacred Temple,—and if, as I fear, 
thou art a stray fugitive from the accursed Lysia’s band 
of lovers, thou mayest be tracked hither and quickly 
slain. Come,—I will show thee a secret labyrinth by 
which thou canst gain the embankment of the river, and 
from thence betake thyself speedily home, ... if thou 
hast a home . .” here he paused, and a keen, questioning 
glance flashed in his dark eyes. “But,—notwithstand¬ 
ing thy fluency of speech and fashion of attire, methmks 
thou hast the lost and solitary air of one who is a stranger 
in the city of Al-Kyris ?” 

Theos sighed. 

“ A stranger I am indeed! ” he said drearily—“ A 
stranger to my very self and all my former belongings ! 
Ask me no questions, good father, for, as I live, I cannot 
answer them ! I am oppressed by a nameless and mys¬ 
terious suffering, . . my brain is darkened,—my thoughts 
but half-formed and never wholly uttered, and I,—I who 
once deemed human intelligence and reason all-supreme, 
all-clear, all-absolute, am now compelled to use that reason 
reasonlessly, and to work with that intelligence in help¬ 
less ignorance as to what end my mental toil shall serve ! 
Woeful and strange it is!—yet true; ... I am as a 
broken straw in a whirlwind,—or the pale ghost of my own 
identity groping for things forgotten in a land of shadows ; 

.I know not whence I came, nor whither I go / 

Nay, do not fear me,—I am not mad : I am conscious of 
my life, my strength, and physical well-being,—and 
though I may speak wildly, I harbor no ill-intent toward 
any man—my quarrel is with God alone / ” 

lie paused,—then resumed in calmer accents,—“ You 
judge rightly, reverend sir,—I am a stranger in Al-Kyris. 
I entered the city-gates this morning when the sun was 
high,—and ere noon I found courteous welcome and 
princely shelter,—I am the guest of the poet Sah-luma.” 

The old man looked at him half compassionately. 

“Ah, Sah-luma is thine host?” he said with a touch of 
melancholy surprise in his tone—“Then wherefore art 
thou here ? * . . . here in this dark abode where none 

may linger and escape with life? . . how earnest thou 
within the bounds of Lysia’s fatal pleasaunce! , , Has 
the Laureate’s friendship thus misguided thee?” 




ARDATB. 


240 

Theos hesitated before replying. He was again moved 
by that curious instinctive dread of hearing Sah-luma’s 
name associated with any sort of reproach,—and his 
voice had a somewhat defiant ring as he answered: 

“ Nay, surely I am neither child nor woman that If 
should weakly yield to guidance or misleading! Some tri¬ 
fling matter of free-will remains to me in spite of mine 
affliction,—and that I have supped with Sali-luma at the 
Palace of the High Priestess, has been as much my choice 
as his example. Who among men would turn aside from 
high feasting and mirthful company? . . not I, believe 
me! . . and Sah-luma’s desires herein were but the reflex 
of mine own. We came together through the woodland, 
and parted but a moment since.” 

He stopped abruptly, startled by a sudden clash as of 
steel and the tramp-tramp of approaching feet. His aged 
companion caught him by the arm. . . 

“Hush!” he whispered . . “Not a word more . . not 
a breath ! . . or thy life must pay the penalty ! Quick, 
—follow me close! .... step softly! . . there is a hiding- 
place near at hand where we may couch unseen till these 
dread visitants pass by.” 

Moving stealthily and with anxious precaution, he led 
the way to a niche hollowed deeply out in the thickness 
of the wall, and turning his lamp aside so that not the 
faintest glimmer of it could be perceived, he took Theos 
by the hand, and drew him into what seemed to be a 
huge cavernous recess, utterly dark and icy cold. 

Here, crouching low in the furthest gloom, they both 
waited silently,—Theos ignorant as to the cause of the 
sudden alarm, and wondering vaguely what strange new 
circumstance was about to happen. The measured tramp- 
tramp of feet came nearer and nearer, and in another 
moment the flare of smoking torches illumined the 
vaulted passage, casting many a ruddy flicker and flash 
on the ivory-gleaming whiteness of the vast skeleton, 
army that stood with such grim and pallid patience as 
though waiting for a marching signal. 

Presently there appeared a number of half-naked men, 
carrying short axes stained with blood,—coarse, savage, 
cruel-looking brutes all, whose lowering faces bore the 
marks of a thousand unrepented crimes,—these were fol¬ 
lowed by four tall personages clad in flowing white robes 
and closely masked,—and finally there came a band of 




ARBATH. 


241 


black slaves clothed in vivid scarlet, dragging between 
them two writhing, bleeding creatures,—one a man, the 
other a girl in her earliest youth, both convulsed by the 
evident last agonies of death. 

Arrived at the centre of that part of the vault where 
the skeleton crowd was thickest, this horrible cortege 
halted, while one of the masked personages undid from 
his girdle a large bunch of keys. And now Theos, watch¬ 
ing everything with dreadful interest from the obscure 
corner where he was, thanks to his unknown friend, suc¬ 
cessfully concealed, perceived for the first time a low, 
iron door, heavily barred, and surmounted by sharp 
spikes as long as drawn daggers. When this dreary 
portal was, with many a jarring groan and clang, slowly 
opened, such an awful cry broke from the lips of the 
tortured man as might have wrung compassion from the 
most hardened tyrant. Wresting himself fiercely out of 
the grasp of the slaves who held him, he struggled to 
his feet, while the blood poured from the cruel wounds 
that were inflicted all over his body, and raising his 
manacled hands aloft he cried . . 

“ Mercy ! . . mercy! . . not for me, but for her! . . for 
her, my love, my life, my tenderest little one! . . What 
is her crime, ye fiends ? . . why do ye deem love a sin 
and passion a dishonor ? . . Shall there be no more heart- 
longmgs because ye are cold ? . . Spare her! . . . she is 
so young, so fond, so innocent of all reproach save one, . 
the shame of loving me! Spare her! ... or, if ye will 
not spare, slay her at once! . . now !—now, with swift 
compassionate sword, . . . but cast her not alive into 
yon hideous serpent’s den! . . . not alive! . . ah no, no, 
—ye gods have pity ! . . .” 

Here his voice broke and a sudden light passed over 
his agonized countenance. Gazing steadfastly at the girl, 
whose beautiful, white body now lay motionless on the 
cold stone, with a cloud of fair hair falling veil-like over 
it, his eyes seemed to strain themselves out of their 
sockets in the intensity of his eager regard, when all at 
once he gave vent to a wild peal of delirious laughter and 
exclaimed . . 

“ Dead . . dead ! . . Thanks be to the merciless gods 
for this one gift of grace at the last! Dead . dead! . . . 
O the blessed favor and freedom of death! . . Sweetheart, 
they can torture thee no more . . no more! . . Ah, devils 

16 


242 


ARDATE. 


that ye are!” and his voice grown frantically loud, 
pierced the gloomy arches with terrible resonance, as lie 
saw the red-garmented slaves vainly endeavoring to 
rouse, with ferocious blows and thrusts, new life in the 
fair, stiffening corpse before them . . “ This time ye are 
baffled! . . . Baffled !—and I live to see your vanquish- 
ment! Give her to me! ” and he stretched out his 
trembling arms . . . “ Give her . . . she is dead—and 
ye cannot offer toNagaya any lifeless thing! I will weave 
her a shroud of her own gold hair—I will bury her softly 
away in the darkness—I will sing to her as I used to 
sing in the silent summer evenings, when w r e fancied 
our secret of forbidden love unknown,—and with my lips 
on hers, I will pray . . pray for the pardon of passion 
grown stronger . . . than . . . life!.” 

He ceased, and swaying forward, fell, .... a shiver 
ran through his limbs . . . one deep, gasping sigh . . . and 
all was over. The band of torturers gathered round 
the body, uttering fierce oaths and exclamations of dis¬ 
may. 

“ Both dead! ” said one of the individuals in white . . 
“ ’Tis a most fatal augury! ” 

“ Fatal indeed! ” said another, and turning to the men 
with the blood-stained axes, he added angrily—“ Ye were 
too swift and lavish of your weapons—ye should have let 
these criminals suffer slowly inch by inch, and yet have 
left them life enough wherewith to linger on in anguish 
many hours.” 

The wretches thus addressed looked sullen and humil¬ 
iated, and approaching the two corpses, would have 
brutally inflicted fresh wounds on them, had not the 
seeming chief of the party interfered. 

“ Let be . . let be ! ” lie said austerely—“ Ye cannot 
cause the dead to feel, . . . would that it were possible! 
Then might the glorious and god-like thirst of vengeance 
in our great High Priestess be somewhat more appeased 
in this matter. For the unlawful communion of love be¬ 
tween a vestal virgin and an anointed priest cannot be 
too utterly abhorred and condemned,—and these twain, 
who thus did foully violate their vows, have perished far 
too easily. The sanctity of the Temple has been out¬ 
raged, . . Lysia will not be satisfied, . . and how shall we 
pacify her righteous wrath, concerning this too-tranquU 
death of the undeserving and impure ? ” 



ARBATB. 


2T3 

Drawing all together in a close group they held a whis¬ 
pered consultation, and finally, appearing to have come to 
some sort of decision, they took up the dead bodies one 
after another, and flung them carelessly into the dark 
aperture lately unclosed. As they did this, a stealthy, 
rustling sound was heard, as of some great creature mov¬ 
ing to and fro in the far interior, but they soon locked 
and barred the iron portal once more, and then took their 
departure rather hurriedly, leaving the vault by the way 
Theos had entered it—namely, up the stone stairway that 
led into Lysia’s palace-gardens. As the last echo of their 
retreating steps died away and the last glimmer of their 
lurid torches vanished, Theos sprang out from his hiding- 
place,—his venerable companion slowly followed. 

44 Oh, God! Can such things be! ” he cried loudly, 
reckless of all possible risk for himself as his voice rang 
penetratingly through the deep silence—“Were these 
brute-murderers actual men?—or but the wandering, 
grim shadows of some long past crime? . . . Nay,— 
surely I do but dream !—and ghouls and demons born out 
of nightmare-sleep do vex my troubled spirit! Justice! 

. . justice for the innocent! . . Is there none in all Al- 
Kyris ? ” 

44 None! ” replied the old man who stood beside him, 
lamp in hand, fixing his dark, melancholy eyes upon him 
as he spoke— 44 None! . . neither in Al-Kyris nor in any 
other great city On the peopled earth! Justice ? . . I 
who am named Zuriel the Mystic, because of my tireless 
searching into things that are hidden from the unstudious 
and unthinking,—I know that Justice is an idle name,— 
an empty braggart-word forever on the mouths of kings 
and judges, but never in their hearts! Moreover,—what 
is guilt ? . . What is innocence ? Both must be defined 
according to the law of the realm wherein we dwell,—and 
from that law there can be no appeal. These men we lately 
saw were the chief priests and executioners of the Sacred 1 
Temple,—they have done no wrong—they have simply 
fulfilled their duty. The culprits slain deserved their 
fate,—they loved where loving was forbidden,—torture 
and death was the strictly ordained punishment, and 
herein was justice,—justice as portioned out by the Penal 
Code of the High Court of Council. 5 ’ 

Theos heard, and gave an expressive gesture of loathing 
; and contempt. 


244 


ARDATH. 


“ O narrow jurisdiction! . . O short-sighted, false 
equity! ” he exclaimed passionately. “ Are there differ¬ 
ent laws for high and low ? . . Must the weak and de¬ 
fenceless be condemned to death for the self-same sin 
committed openly by their more powerful brethren who 
yet escape scot-free ? What of the High Priestess 
then ? . .If these poor lover-victims merited their doom, 
why is not Lysia slain ? . . Is not she a willingly violated 
vestal? . . doth she not count her lovers by the score? 

. . are not her vows long since broken ? . . is not her life 
a life of wanton luxury and open shame ? . . . Why doth 
the Law, beholding these things, remain in her case dumb 
and ineffectual ? ” 

“ Hush, hush, my son ! ” said the aged Zuriel anx¬ 
iously—“ These stone walls hear thee far too loudly,—who 
knows but they may echo forth thy words to unsuspected 
listeners ! Peace—peace ! . . Lysia is as much Queen, as 
Zephoranim is King of Al-Kyris ; and surely thou know- 
est that the sins of tyrants are accounted virtues, so long 
as they retain their ruling powers ? The public voice 
pronounces Lysia chaste, and Zephoranim faithful; who 
then shall dare to disprove the verdict ?—’Tis the same 
in all countries, near and far,—the law serves the strong, 
while professing to defend the weak. The rich man gains 
his cause,—the beggar loses it,—how can it be otherwise, 
while lust of gold prevails ? Gold is the moving-force of this 
our era,—without it kings and ministersare impotent, and 
armies starve, . . with it, all things can be accomplished 
even to the concealment of the foulest crimes. Come, 
come ! . .” and he laid one hand kindly on Theos’s arm, 

“ Thou hast a generous and fiery spirit, but thou shouldst 
never have been born into this planet if thou seekest such ' 
a thing as Justice! No man will ever deal true justice to 
his fellow man on earth, unless perhaps in ages to come, 
when the old creeds are swept away for a new, and a 
grander, wider, purer form of faith is accepted by the 
people. For religion in Al-Kyris to-day is a hollow 
mockery,—a sham, kept up partly from fear,—partly from 
motives of policy,—but every thinker is an atheist at 
heart, . . . our splendid civilization is tottering towards 
its fall, . . and should the fore-doomed destruction of 
this city come to pass, vast ages of progress, discovery, 
and invention will be swept away as though they had 
never been! ” 


ARDATH. 


&Vs* 

He paused and sighed,—then continued sorrowfully— 
lt There is, there must be something wrong in the mechan¬ 
ism of life,—some little hitch that stops the even wheels, 
—some curious perpetual mischance that crosses us at 
every turn,—but I doubt not all is for the best, and will 
prove most truly so hereafter! ” 

“ Hereafter! ’’echoes Theos bitterly. . . “ Thinkest thou 
that even God, repenting of the evil He hath done, will 
ever be able to compensate us by any future bliss, for all 
the needless anguish of the Present? ” 

Zuriel looked at him with a strange, almost spectral 
expression of mingled pity, fear, and misgiving, but he 
offered no reply to this home-thrust of a question. In 
grave silence and with slow, majestic tread he began to 
lead the way along through the dismal labyrinth of black, 
winding arches, holding his blue lamp aloft as he went, 
the better to lighten the dense gloom. 

Theos followed him, silent also, and wrapped in stern 
and mournful musings of his own, . . . musings through 
which faint threads of pale recollection connected with 
his past glimmered hazily from time to time, perplexing 
rather than enlightening his bewildered brain. 

Presently he found himself in a low, narrow vestibule 
illumined by the bright yet soft radiance of a suspended 
Star,—and here, coming close up with his guide and ob¬ 
serving his dress and manner more attentively, he sud¬ 
denly perceived a shining Something which the old man 
wore hanging from his neck and which flashed against 
the sable hue of his garment like a wandering moon¬ 
beam. 

Stopping abruptly, he examined this ornament with 
straining, wistful gaze, . . and slowly, very slowly, 
recognized its fashion of construction,—it was a plain 
silver Cross—nothing more. Yet at sight of the sacred, 
strange, yet familiar Symbol, a chord seemed to snap 
in his brain,—tears rushed to his tired eyes, and with a 
sharp cry he fell on his knees, grasping his companion’s 
robe wildly, as a drowning man grasps at a floating spar, 
—while the venerable Zuriel, startled at his action, starred 
down upon him in evident amazement and terror. 

“Rescue! . . . rescue!” he cried, . . “Othou blessed 
among men!—thou dost wear the Sign of Eternal Safety! 

. . the Sign of the Way, the Truth, and the Life!. . ‘ with¬ 
out the Way ? there k no going, without the Truth there k 


246 


ARDATU. 


no knowing, without the Life there is no living ’! Now 
do I know thee for a saint in Al-Kyris,—for thou dost 
openly avow thyself a follower of the Divine Faith that 
fools despise, and selfish souls repudiate, . . . ah, I do 
beseech thee, thou good and holy man, absolve me of my 
sin of Unbelief ! Teach me ! . . help me! . . and I will 
hear thy counsels with the meekness of a listening child! 
. . See you, I kneel! . . I pray! . . I, even I, am humili¬ 
ated to the very dust of shame ! I have no pride, ... I 
seek no glory, . . . I do entreat, even as I once rejected 
the blessing of the Cross, whereby I shall regain my lost 
love,—my despised pardon,—my vanished peace! ” 

And, with pathetic earnestness, he raised his hands to¬ 
ward the silver emblem, and touched it tenderly, rever¬ 
ently, . . .then as though unworthy, he bent his head low, 
and waited eagerly for a Name, . . a Name that he himself 
could not remember, . . . a Name suggestedby the Cross, 
but not declared. If that Name were once spoken in the 
form of a benediction, he felt instinctively that he would 
straightway be released from the mysterious spell of 
misery that bound his intelligence in such a grievous 
thrall. But not a word of consolation did his companion 
utter, . . on the contrary, he seemed agitated by the 
strangest surprise and alarm. 

“Now may all the gods in Heaven defend thee, then 
unhappy, desperate, distracted soul! ” he said in trem* 
bling, affrighted accents. “ Thou dost implore the bless¬ 
ing of a Faith unknown ! . . a Mystery predicted but not 

yet fulfilled.a Creed that shall not be declared to 

men for full Jive thousand years / ” 


CHAPTER XXI\ 

THE CRIMSON RIVER. 

At these unexpected words Theos sprang wildly to his 

feet. An awful darkness seemed to close in upon him,_ 

and a chaotic confusion of memories began to whirl and 
drift through his mind like flotsam and jetsam tossed 
upon a storm-swept sea. The aged and shadowy-looking 
Zuriel stood motionless, watching him with something of 
fimid pity and mild patience. 


AIIDATU. 


247 

g 35 Five thousand years ! 99 he muttered hoarsely, pressing 
ais hands into his aching brows, while his eyes again 
j’ixed themselves yearningly on the Cross . . “ Five 

thousand years before .... before what f 99 

He caught the old man’s arm, and in spite of himself, a 
augh, wild, discordant, and out of all keeping with his 1 
inward emotions, broke from his parched lips,—“Thou* 
doting fool ! ” he cried almost furiously,—“ Why dost 1 
thou mock me then with this false image of a hope un- j 
realized? . . Who gave thee leave to add more fuel to my . 
flame of torment? . . What means this symbol to thine 
eyes ? Speak . . sp^ak! What admonition does it hold ( 
for thee? . . what Promise? . . what menace? . . what 
warning? . . what love ? . . Speak . . speak! O, shall 
I force confession from thy throat, or must I die unsatisfied 
and slain by speechless longing! What didst thou say ? 

. . jive thousand years? . . Nay, by the gods, thou liest! ” 
—and he pointed excitedly to the sacred Emblem,—“I 
tell thee that Holy Sign is as familiar to my suffering 
soul as the chiming of bells at sunset! . . as well known 
to my sight as the unfolding of flowers in the fields of 
spring! . . What shall be done or said of it, in five 
thousand years, that has not already been said and done ? ” 

Zuriel regarded him more compassionately than ever, 
with a penetrating, mournful expression in his serious 
dark eyes. 

“ Alas, alas, my son ! thou art most grievously dis¬ 
traught ! ” he said in troubled tones. “ Thy words but 
prove the dark disorder of thy wits,—may Heaven soon 
heal thee of thy mental wound! Restrain thy wild and 
wandering fancies? . . for surely thou canst not be 
familiar, as thou sayest with this silver Symbol, seeing 
that it is but the Talisman* or Badge of the Mystic 
Brethren of Al-Kyris, and has no signification what- ; 
soever save for the Elect. It was designed some twenty 
years ago by the inspired Chief of our Order, Khosrul, 
and such as are still his faithful disciples wear it as a 
record and constant reminder of his famous Prophecy.” 

Theos heard, and a dull apathy stole over him,—his 
recent excitement died out under a chilling weight of 
vague yet bitter disappointment. 

* The Cross was held in singular veneration in the Temple of 
Serapis, and by many tribes in the East, ages before the coming of 
Christ. 




248 


ABBATH. 


“ And this Prophecy ? ” he asked listlessly . . “ What 
is its nature and whom doth it concern ? ” 

“Nay, in very truth it is a strange and marvellous 
thing! ” replied Zuriel, his calm voice thrilling with a mel¬ 
low touch of fervor . . “ Khosrul, ’tis said, has heard the 
angels whispering in Heaven, and his attentive ears have 
caught the echo of their distant speech. 

“ Thus spiritually instructed, he doth powerfully pre¬ 
dict Salvation for the human race,—and doth announce, 
that in five thousand years or more, a God shall be moved 
by wondrous mercy to descend from Heaven, and take 
the form of Man, wherein, unknown, despised!, rejected, 
he will live our life from commencement to finish, teach- 
ing, praying, and sanctifying by His Divine Presence the 
whole sin-burdened Earth. This done, He will consent 
to suffer a most cruel death, . . and the manner of His 
death will be that He shall hang, nailed hands and feet to 
a Cross, as though He were a common criminal, . . . His 
holy brows shall be bound about with thorns,—ai?d after 
hours of agony He, innocent of every sin, shall perish 
miserably—friendless, unpitied, and alone. But after¬ 
ward, . . . and mark you! this is the chiefest glory of 
all! . . . He will rise again triumphant from the grave to 
prove his God-head, and to convince Mankind beyond all 
doubt and question, that there is indeed an immortal 
Hereafter,—an actual, free Eternity of Life, compared 
with which this our transient existence is a mere brief 
breathing-space of pause and probation, . . . and then 
for evermore His sacred Name shall dominate and civilize 
the world.” 

“ What Name?” . . interrupted Theos, with eager ab¬ 
ruptness ... “ Canst thou pronounce it ? ” 

Zuriel shook his head. 

“Not I, my son ”—he answered gravely . . “ Not even 
Khosrul can penetrate thus far! The Name of Him who 
is to come, is hidden deep among God’s unfathomed 
silences! It should suffice thee that thou knowest now 
the sum and substance of the Prophecy. Would I might 
live to see the days when all shall be fulfilled! . . . but 
alas, my remaining years are few upon the earth, and 
Heaven’s time is not ours ! ” 

He sighed,—and resumed his slow pacing onwards,— 
Theos walked beside him as a man may walk in sleep, un¬ 
certainly and with unseeing eyes, his heart beating loudly* 


AIWATH. 


249 


and a sick sense ot* suffocation in his throat. What did 
it all mean? . . Had his life gone back in some strange 
way ? ... or had he merely dreamed of a former existence 
different to this one ? He remembered now what Sah-luma 
had told him respecting Khorsrul’s “ new ” theory of a 
future religion,—a theory that to him had seemed so old, 
so old !—so utterly exhausted and worn threadbare ! In 
what a cruel problem was he hopelessly involved!—what 
a useless, perplexed, confused being he had become! . . 
he who would once to have staked his life on the unflinch¬ 
ing strength and capabilities of human reason! After a 
pause, . . 

“ Forgive me! ” he said in a low tone, and speaking 
with some effort . . “ forgive me and have patience with 
»y laggard comprehension, . . I am perplexed at heart 
and slow of thought; wilt thou assure me faithfully, that 
this God-Man thou speakest of is not yet born on earth ? ” 

The faintest shadow of.a wondering smile flickered over 
the old man’s wrinkled countenance, like the reflection of 
a passing taper-flame on a faded picture. 

“ My son, my son! ” he murmured with compassionate 
tolerance—“ Have I not told thee that jive thousand years 
and more must pass away ere the prediction be accom. 
plished? ... I marvel that so plain a truth should thus 
disquiet thee! Now, by my soul, thou lookest pallid as 
the dead! . . Come, let us hasten on more rapidly,—thy 
fainting spirits will revive in fresher air.” 

He hurried his pace as he spoke, and glided along with 
<such a curious, stealthy noiselessness that by and by 
Theos began dubiously to wonder whether after all he 
were a real personage or a phantom ? He noticed that his 
own figure seemed to possess much more substantiality 
and distinctness of outline than that of this mysterious 
Zuriel, whose very garments resembled floating cloud 
rather than actual, woven fabric. Was his companion 
then a fitting Spectre ? . . . 

He sailed at the absurdity of the idea, and to change 
the drift of L , own foolish fancies he asked suddenly,— 
“ Concerning this wondrous city of Al-Kyris ... is it of 
very ancient days, and long lineage ? ” 

“ The annals of its recorded history reach over a period 
of twelve thousand years ’’—replied Zuriel, . . “ But ’tis 
the present fashion to count from the Deification of 
Nagaya or the Snake,—and, according to this, we are now 


250 


ABB ATE. 


in the nine hundred and eighty-ninth year of so-called 
Grace and Knowledge,—rather say Dishonor and Crime 1 
. . for a crueler, more bloodthirsty creed than the worship 
of Nag&aya never debased a people! Who shall number 
up the innocent victims that have been sacrificed in the 
great Temple of the Sacred Python!—and even on this 
very day which has just dawned, another holocaust is to 
be offered on the Veiled Shrine,—or so it hath been 
publicly proclaimed throughout the city,—and the crowd 
will flock to see a virgin’s blood spilt on the accursed 
altars where Lysia, in all the potency of triumphant 
wickedness, presides. But if the auguries of the stars pre¬ 
vail, ’twill be for the last time! ” Here he paused and 
looked fixedly at Theos. . “ Thou dost return straightway 
to Sah-luma . . is it not so ? ” 

Theos bent his head in assent. 

“ Art thou true friend, or mere flatterer to that spoilt 
child of fair fame and fortune ? ” 

“ Friend ! ”—cried Theos with eager enthusiasm, . . “ 1 
would give my life to save his ! ” 

“ Aye, verily ? . . is it so ? ” . . and Zuriel’s melancholy 
eyes dwelt upon him with a strange and sombre wistful- 
ness, . . “ Then, as thou art a man, persuade him out of 

evil into good!.rouse him to noble shame and 

nobler penitence for all those faults which mar his poet- 
genus and deprive it of immortal worth! . . . . urge him 
to depart from Al-Kyris while there is yet time ere 
the bolt of destruction falls! .... and, . . mark you 
well this final warning! . . . bid him to-day avoid the 
Temple, and beware the King! ”— 

As he said this he stopped and extinguished the lamp 
he carried. There was no longer any need of it, for a 
broad patch of gray light fell through an aperture in the 
wall, showing a few rough, broken steps that led upwards, 
—and pointing to these he bade the bewildered Theos a 
kindly farewell. 

“ Thou wilt find Sah-lfima’s palace easily,”—he said— 
“Not a child in the streets but knows the way thither. 
Guard thy friend and be thyself also on guard against 
coming disaster,—and if thou art not yet resolved to die, 
escape from the city ere to-night’s sun-setting. Soothe 
thy distempered fancies with thoughts of God, and cease 
not to pray for thy soul’s salvation! Peace be with 
thee!”— 




ARDATH. 


251 


He raised his hands with an expressive gesture of bene¬ 
diction, and turning round abruptly disappeared. Where 
had he gone? . . how had he vanished? . . It was im¬ 
possible to tell! . . he seemed to have melted away like 
a mist into utter nothingness! Profoundly perplexed, 
Theos ascended the steps before him, his mind anxiously 
revolving all the strange adventures of the night, while a 
dim sense of some unspeakable, coming calamity brooded 
darkly upon him. 

The solemn admonitions he had just heard affected him 
deeply, for the reason that they appeared to apply so 
specially to Sah-llima,—and the idea that any evil fate 
was in store for the bright, beautiful creature, whom he 
had, oddly enough, learned to love more than himself, 
moved him to an almost womanish apprehension. In 
case of pressing necessity, could he exercise any authority 
over the capricious movements of the wilful Laureate, 
whose egotism was so absolute, whose imperious ways were 
so charming, whose commands were never questioned ? 

He doubted it! . . for Sah-lhma was accustomed to 
follow the lead of his own immediate pleasure, in reck¬ 
less scorn of consequences,—and it was not likely he 
would listen to the persuasions or exhortations, however 
friendly, of any one presuming to run counter to his wishes. 

Again and again Theos asked himself—“ If Sah-lftma 
of his own accord, and despite all warning, deliberately 
rushed into deadly peril, could I, even loving him as I do, 
rescue him ? ”—And as he pondered on this, a strange 
answer shaped itself unbidden in his brain—an answer 
that seemed as though it were spoken aloud by some in¬ 
terior voice . . “Ho,—no!—ten thousand times no! You 
could not save him any more than you could save your¬ 
self from the results of your own misdoing! If you vol¬ 
untarily choose evil, not all the forces in the world can 
lift you into good,—if you voluntarily choose danger, not 
all the gods can bring you into safety ! Free Will is 
the divine condition attached to human life, and each man 
by thought, word, and deed, determines his own fate, and 
decides his own future! ” 

He sighed despondingly, . . a curious, vague contrition 
stirred within him, . . he felt as though he were in some 
mysterious way to blame for all his poet-friend’s short¬ 
comings ! 

In a few minutes he found himself on the broad marble 


252 


ARDATB. 


embankment, close to the very spot from whence he had 
first beheld the*beautiful High Priestess sailing slowly by in 
all her golden pomp and splendor, and as he thought of her 
now, a shudder, half of aversion, half of desire, quivered 
through him, flushing his brows with the warm uprising 
blood that yet burned rebelliously at the remembrance 
of her witching, perfect loveliness ! 

Here too he had met Sah-Kuna, . . ah Heaven!—how 
many things had happened since then ! . . . how much he 
had seen and heard! . . . Enough, at any rate, to con¬ 
vince him, that the men and women of Al-Kyris were 
more or less the same as those of other great cities he 
seemed to have known in far-off, half-forgotten days,— 
that they plotted against each other, deceived each other, 
accused each other falsely, murdered each other, and were 
fools, traitors, and egotists generally, after the customary 
fashion of human pigmies,—that they set up a Sham to 
serve as Religion, Gold being their only god,—that the 
rich wantoned in splendid luxury, and wilfully neglected 
the poor,—that the King was a showy profligate, ruled 
by a treacherous courtesan, just like many other famous 
Kings and Princes, who, because of their stalwart, martial 
bearing, and a certain surface good-nature, manage to 
conceal their vices from the too lenient eyes of the sub¬ 
jects they mislead,—and that finally all things were evi¬ 
dently tending toward some great convulsion and up 
heaval possibly arising from discontent and dissension 
among the citizens themselves,—or, likelier still, from the 
sudden invasion of a foreign foe,—for any more terrific 
termination of events did not just then suggest itself to 
his imagination. 

Absorbed in thought, he walked some paces along the 
embankment, before he perceived that a number of peo¬ 
ple were already assembled there,—men, women, and 
children, who, crowding eagerly together to the very edge 
of the parapet, appeared to be anxiously watching the 
waters below. 

What unusual sight attracted them ? . . and why were 
they all so silent as though struck dumb by some unut¬ 
terable dismay ? One or two, raising their heads, turned 
their pale, alarmed faces toward Theos as he approached, 
their eyes seeming to mutely inquire his opinion, concern¬ 
ing the alarming phenomenon which held them thus spell¬ 
bound and fear-stricken. 


ARDATU. 


253 


He made his way quickly to where they stood, and look¬ 
ing where they looked, uttered a sharp, involuntary ex¬ 
clamation, .... the river, the clear, rippling river was 
red as blood. Beneath the slowly breaking light of dawn, 
that streaked the heavens with delicate lines of silver-gray 
and daffodil, the whole visible length and breadth of the 
heaving waters shone with a darkly flickering crimson 
hue, deeper than the lustre of the deepest ruby, flowing 
sluggishly the while as though clogged with some thick 
and weedy slime. 

As the sky brightened gradually into a pale, ethereal 
blue, so the tide became ruddier and more pronounced in 
color,—and presently, as though seized by a resistless 
panic, the group of staring, terrified bystanders broke up 
suddenly, and rushed away in various directions, covering 
their faces as they fled and uttering loud cries of lamenta¬ 
tion and despair. 

Theos alone remained behind, . . resting his folded 
arms on the sculptured balustrade, lie gazed down, down 
into those crimson depths till their strange tint dazzled 
and confused his sight,—looking up for relief to the eastern 
horizon where the sun was just bursting out in full splen¬ 
dor from a pavilion of violet cloud, the red reflection was 
still before his eyes, so much so, that the very air seemed 
flushed with spreading fire. 

And then like the sound of a tocsin ringing in his ears, 
the words of the Prophet Khosrul, as pronounced in the 
presence of the King, recurred to his memory with new 
and suggestive force. “ Blood—blood! His a scarlet sea 
wherein like a broken and empty ship Al-Kyvis founders, 
—-founders never to rise again ! ” 

Still painfully oppressed by an increasing sense of some 
swift-approaching disaster, his thoughts once more re¬ 
verted anxiously to Sah-luma. He must be warned,— 
yes!—even if he disdained ail warning! Yet, . . warn 
him against what ? “ Bid him avoid the Temple and be¬ 
ware the King ! ” 

So had said Zuriel the Mystic,—but to the laurelled 
favorite of the monarch, and idol of the people, such an 
admonition would seem more than absurd! It was use¬ 
less to talk to him about the prophecies of Khosrul,—he 
had heard them all, and laughed them to scorn. 

“How can I”—then mused Theos disconsolately,— 

How can I make him believe that some undeclared evil 


254 


ARDATH. 


threatens him, when he is at the very pinnacle of fame 
and fortune with all Al-Kyris at his feet ? . . lie would 
never listen to me, . . . nor would any persuasions of 
mine induce him to leave the city where his name is so 
glorious and his renown so firmly established. Of Lysia’s 
treachery I may perhaps convince him, . . . yet even in 
this attempt I may fail, and incur his hatred for my pains! 
If I had only myself to consider! . . —And here his re¬ 

flections suddenly took a strange, unbidden turn. If he 
had only himself to consider! . . well, what then! Was 
it not just within the bounds of probability that, under 
the same circumstances, he might be precisely as self- 
willed and as haughtily opinionated as the friend whose 
arrogance he deplored, yet could not alter ? 

So pointed a suggestion was not exactly suited to his 
immediate humor, and he felt curiously vexed with him¬ 
self for indulging in such a foolish association of ideas! 
The positions were entirely different, he argued, angrily 
addressing the troublesome inward monitor that every 
now and then tormented him,—there was no resemblance 
whatever between himself, the unknown, unfamed wan¬ 
derer in a strange land, and the brilliant Sali-luma, chosen 
Poet Laureate of the realm! 

No resemblance, . . none at all! . . he reiterated over 
and over again in his own mind, . . except . . . except, 
. . . well! . . except in perhaps a few trifling touches of 
character and temper that were scarcely worth the not¬ 
ing! At this juncture, his uncomfortable reverie was 
interrupted by the sound of a harsh, metallic voice close 
behind him. 

“ What fools there are in the world! ” said the voice in 
emphatic accents of supreme contempt—“ What braying 
asses!—What earth-snouting swine! Saw you notion 
crowd of whimpering idiots flying helter-skelter like chaff 
before the wind, weeping, wailing, and bemoaning their 
miserable little sins, scattering dust on their addled pates, 
and howling on their gods for mercy,—all forsooth ! be¬ 
cause for once in their unobserving lives they behold the 
river red instead of green! Ay me! ’tis a thing to laugh 
at, this crass, and brutish ignorance of the multitude*—no 
teaching will ever cleanse their minds from the cobwebs 
of vulgar superstition,—and I, in common with every 
wise and worthy sage of sound repute and knowledge* 


ARBATH. 


255 


must needs waste all my scientific labors on a perpetually 
ungrateful public! ” 

Turning hastily round Theos confronted the speaker,— 
a tall, spare man with a pale, clean-shaven, intellectual 
face, small, shrewd, speculative eyes, and very straight, 
neatly parted locks—a man on whose every lineament 
was expressed a profound belief in himself, and an equally 
profound scorn for the opinions of any one who might 
possibly presume to disagree with him. He smiled con¬ 
descendingly as he met Theos’s half-surprised, half-inquir¬ 
ing look, and saluted him with a gravely pompous air, 
which however, was not without a saving touch of that 
indescribable, easy grace which seemed to distinguish 
the manners of all the inhabitants of Al-Ivyris. Theos 
returned the salutation with equal gravity, whereupon the 
new-comer waving his hand majestically, continued : 

“ You sir, I see, are young, . . and probably you are 
enrolled among the advanced students of one or other of 
our great collegiate institutions,—therefore the peculiar, 
though not at all unnatural tint of the river this morning, 
is of course no mystery to you, if, as I presume, you follow 
the Scientific Classes of Instruction in the Physiology of 
Nature, of Manifestation of Simple and Complex Motive 
Force, and the Perpetual Evolution of Atoms ? ” 

Theos smiled,—the grandiloquent manner of this self- 
important individual amused him. 

“ Most worthy sir,” he replied, “ you form too favorable 
an opinion of my scholarly attainments ! I am a stranger 
in Al-Kyris,—and know naught of its educational system, 
or the interior mechanism of its wondrous civilization! 
I come from far-off lands, where, if I remember rightly, 
much is taught and but little retained,—where petty 
pedagogues persist in dragging new generations of men 
through old and worn-out ruts of knowledge that future 
ages shall never have need of, . . and concerning even 
the progress of science, I confess to a certain incredulity, 
seeing that to my mind Science somewhat resembles a 
straight line drawn clear across country but leading, 
alas! to an ocean wherein all landmarks are lost and 
swallowed up in blankness. Over and over again the 
human race has trodden the same pathway of research,— 
over and over again has it stood bewildered and baffled on 
the shores of the same vast sea,—the most marvellous 
discoveries are after all mere child’s play compared to the 


ARDATH. 


256 

tremendous secrets that must remain forever unrevealed; 
and the poor and trifling comprehension of things that we, 
after a life-time of study, succeed in attaining, is only just 
sufficient to add to our already burdened existence the 
undesirable clogs of discontent and disappointed end¬ 
eavor. We die,—in almost as much ignorance as we were 
born, . . and when we come face to face-with the Last 
Dark Mystery, what shall our little wisdom profit us ?” 

With his arms folded in an attitude of enforced patience 
and complacent superiority, the other listened. 

“ Curious, . . curious! ” he murmured in a mild sotto- 
voce ,—“A would-be pessimist!—aye, aye,—’tis very 
greatly the fashion for young men in these days to as¬ 
sume the manner of elderly and exhausted cynics who 
have tried everything and approve of nothing! ’Tis a 
strange craze!—but, my good sir, let us keep to the 
subject at present under discussion. Like all unripe 
philosophers, you wander from the point. I did not ask 
you for your opinion concerning the uselessness or the 
efficiency of learning,—I merely sought to discover 
whether you, like the silly throng that lately scattered 
right and left of you, had any foolish forebodings respect¬ 
ing the transformed color of this river,—a color which, 
however seeming peculiar, arises, as all good scholars 
know, from causes that are perfectly simple and easily 
explainable.” 

Theos hesitated,—his eyes wandered invuluntarily to 
the flowing tide, which now with the fully risen sun 
seemed more than ever brilliant and lurid in its sanguinary 

hue. 

“ Strange things have been said of late concerning Al- 
Kyris,—■” he answered at last, slowly and after a thought¬ 
ful pause,—“Things that, though wild and vague, are 
not without certain dark presages and ominous sugges¬ 
tions. This crimson flood may be, as you say, the natural 
effect of purely natural causes,—yet, notwithstanding 
this, it seems to me a singular phenomenon—nay, even a 
weird and almost fatal augury V ” 

His companion laughed—a gentle, careless laugh of 
amused disdain. 

“ Phenomenon! . . augury ! . . ” he exclaimed shrug¬ 
ging his shoulders lightly . . . “ These words, my young 
friend, are terms that nowadays belong exclusively to 
the vocabulary of the uneducated masses; we,—and by 


ARDATIT. 


267 


we, 1 mean scientists, and men of the highest culture,— 
have long ago rejected them as unmeaning and therefore 
unnecessary. Phenomenon is a particularly vile ex¬ 
pression, serving merely to designate anything wonderful 
and uncommon,— whereas to the scientific eye, there is 
nothing left in the world that ought to excite so vulgar 
and barbarous an emotion as wonder, . . nothing so ap¬ 
parently rare that cannot be reduced at once from the 
ignorant exaggerations of enthusiasm to the sensible 
level of the commonplace ? The so-called 4 marvels’ of 
nature have, thanks to the advancement of practical edu¬ 
cation, entirely ceased to affect by either surprise or ad¬ 
miration the carefully matured, mathematically adjusted, 
and technically balanced brain of the finished student 
or professor of Organic Evolution,—and as for the idea of 
‘ auguries’ or portents, nothing could well be more en¬ 
tirely at variance with our present system of progressive 
learning, whereby Human Reason is trained and taught 
to pulverize into indistinguishable atoms all supernatural 
propositions, and to gradually eradicate from the mind 
the absurd notion of a Deity or deities, whom it is 
necessary to propitiate in order to live well. Much time 
is of course required to elevate the multitude above all 
desire for a Religion,—but the seed has been sown, and 
the harvest will be reaped, and a glorious Era is fast 
approaching, when the free-thinking, free-speaking people 
of all nations shall govern themselves and rejoice in the 
grand and God-less Light of Universal Liberty ? ” 

Somewhat heated by the fervor of his declamatory ut¬ 
terance, he passed his hand among his straight locks, 
whether to cool his forehead, or to show off the numerous 
jewelled rings on his fingers, it was difficult to say, and 
continued more calmly: 

44 Ho, young sir!—the color of this river,—a color which, 
I willingly admit, resembles the tint of flowing human 
blood,—has naught to do with foolish omens and forecasts 
of evil,—’tis simply caused by the influx of some foreign 
alluvial matter, probably washed down by storm from 
the sides of the distant mountains whence these waters 
have their rising,—see you not how the tide is thick and 
heavy with an unfloatable cargo of red sand ? Some sud¬ 
den disturbance of the soil,—or a volcanic movement un¬ 
derneath the ocean,—or even a distant earthquake, . . 
any of these may be the reason.” - - „ « . 

17 — 


258 


ATtDATB. 


“ May be ?—why not say must be,” observed Theos half 
ironically, “ since learning makes you sure! ” 

His companion pressed the tips of his fingers delicately 
together, as though blandly deprecating this observa¬ 
tion. 

“ Nay, nay!—none of us, however wise, can say 4 must 
be »”—he argued suavely—“ It is not,—strictly speaking, 
—possible in this world to pronounce an incontestable 
certainty.” 

“Not even that two and two are four?” suggested 
Theos, smiling. 

« Not even that! ”.replied the other with per¬ 

fect gravity—“ Inasmuch as in the kingdom of Hypharus, 
whose borders touch ours, the inhabitants, also highly 
civilized, do count their quantities by a totally different 
method; and to them two and two are not four, the num¬ 
bers two and four not being included in their system of 
figures. Thus,—a Professor from the Colleges of Hy- 
ph&rus could obstinately deny what to us seems the 
plainest fact known to common-sense,—yet, were I to 
argue against him I should never persuade him out of 
his theory,—nor could he move me one jot from mine. 
And viewed from our differing standpoints, therefore, the 
first simple multiplication of numbers could never be 
proved correct beyond all question! ” 

Theos glanced at him in wonder,—the man must be 
mad, he thought, since surely any one in his senses could 
see that two objects placed with other two must neces¬ 
sarily make four! 

“I confess you surprise me greatly, sirl”—he said, 
and, in spite of himself, a little quiver of laughter shook 
his voice. . “ What I asked was by way of jest,—and I 
never thought to hear so simple a subject treated with so 
much profound and almost doubting seriousness! See! ” 
—and he picked up four small stones from the roadway 
—“Count these one by one, . . how many have you? 
Surely even a professor from llypharus could find no 
more, and no less than four ? ” 

Very deliberately, and with unruffled equanimity, the 
other took the pebbles in his hand, turned them over and 
over, and finally placed them in a row on the edge of the 
balustrade near which he stood. 

“ There seem to be four, ...” he then observed pla¬ 
cidly—“ But I would not swear to it,—nor to any thing else 



ARDATR* 


259 


of which the actuality is only supported by the testimony 
of my own eyes and sense of touch.” 

“ Good heavens, man! ” cried Theos, in amazement,— 
“ But a moment since, you were praising the excellence 
of Reason, and the progressive system of learning that 
was to educate human beings into a contempt for the 
Supernatural and Spiritual, and yet almost in the same 
breath you tell me you cannot rely on the evidence of your 
own senses! Was there ever anything more utterly in¬ 
coherent and irrational! ” 

And he flung the pebbles into the redly flowing river 
with a gesture of irritation and impatience. The scien¬ 
tist,—if scientist he could be called,—gazed at him ab¬ 
stractedly, and stroked his well-shaven chin with a some¬ 
what dejected air. Presently heaving a deep sigh, he 
said: 

“ Alas, I have again betrayed myself ! . . ’tis my fatal 
destiny ! Always, by some unlooked-for mischance, I am 
compelled to avow what most I desire to conceal! Can 
you not understand, sir,”—and he laid his hand persua¬ 
sively on Theos’s arm,—“ that a Theory may be one thing 
and one’s own private opinion another ? My Theory is 
my profession,—I live by it! Suppose I resigned it,— 
well, then I should also have to resign my present posi¬ 
tion in the Royal Institutional College,—my house, my 
servants, and my income. I advance the interests of 
pure Human Reason, because the Age has a tendency to 
place Reason as the first and highest attribute of Man,— 
and it would not pay me to pronounce my personal pref¬ 
erence for the natural and vastly superior gift of Intel¬ 
lectual Instinct. I advise my scholars to become atheists, 
because I perceive they have a positive passion for Atheism, 
and it is not my business, nor would it be to my advan¬ 
tage to interfere with the declared predilections of my 
wealthiest patrons. Concerning my own ideas on these 
matters, they are absolutely nil, ... I have no fixed 
principles,—because ”—and his brows contracted in a 
puzzled line—“it is entirely out of my ability to fix 
anything! The whole world of manners and morals is 
in a state of perpetual ferment and consequent change,— 
equally restless and mutable is the world of Nature, for 
at any moment mountains may become plains, and plains 
mountains,—the dry land may be converted into oceans t 
and oceans into dvj land, and so on forever, In this im 


260 


ARDATH. 


cessant shifting of the various particles that make up 
the Universe, how can you expect a man to hold fast ter 
so unstable a thing as an idea! And, respecting the tes¬ 
timony offered by sight and sense, can you rely upon 
such slippery evidence ?” 

Theos moved uneasily,—a slight shiver ran through his 
veins, and a momentary dizziness seized him, as of one 
who gazing down from some lofty mountain-peak sees 
naught below but the white, deceptive blankness of a 
mist that veils the deeper deathful chasms from his eyes. 
Gould he rely on sight and sense : . . dared he take oath 
that these frail guides of his intelligence could never be 
deceived ? . . Doubtfully he mused on this, while his com¬ 
panion continued: 

“ For example, 1 look an arm’s length into space, . * 
my eyes assure me that I behold nothing save empty air, 
—my touch corroborates the assertion of my eyes,—and 
yet, . . Science proves to me that every inch of that arm’s 
length of supposed blank space is filled with thousands 
of minute living organisms that no human vision shall 
ever be able to note or examine! Wonder not, therefore, 
that I decline to express absolute confidence in any fact, 
however seemingly obvious, such as that two and two are 
four, and that I prefer to say the blood-red color of this 
river may be caused by an earth-tremor or a land-slip, 
rather than positively assert that it must be so ; though I 
confess that, as far as my knowledge guides me, I incline 
to the belief that ‘ must be ’ is in this instance the correct 
term.” 

He sighed again, and rubbed his nose perplexedly. 
Theos glanced at him curiously, uncertain whether to 
langh at or pity him. , 

“ Then the upshot of all your learning, sir, . . ” he said, 
. . “is that one can never be quite certain of anything?” 

“ Exactly so! ”—replied the pensive sage with a grave 
shahs of his head,—“Judged by the very finest lines of 
metaphysical argument, you cannot really be sure whether 
you behold in me a Person or a Phantasm ! You think 
you see me,—I think I see you,—but after all it is only an 
impression mutually shared,—an impression which like 
many another, less distinct, may be entirely erroneous! 
Ah, my dear young sir!— education is advancing at a very 
rapid rate, and the art of close analysis is reaching such 
a pitch 6f perfection that I believe we shall soon be able 


ARDATH. 


2G1 


logically to prove, not only that we do not actually exist, 
but moreover that we never have existed 1 . . . And here¬ 
in, as I consider, will be the final triumph of philos¬ 
ophy!” 

“A poor triumph !”—murmured Theo3 wearily . . 

“ What, in such a case, would become of all the nobler 
sentiments and passions of man,—love, hope, gratitude, 
duty, ambition ? ” 

“ They would be precisely the same as before ”—rejoined 
the other complacently—“ Oni;y we should have learned 
to accept them merely as the means whereby to sustain 
the impression that we In e,—an impression which would 
always be agreeable, however delusive! ” 

Theos shrugged his shoulders, a You possess a pecul¬ 
iarly constituted mind, sir ! ”—he said—“ And 1 con¬ 
gratulate you on the skill you display in following out a 
somewhat puzzling investigation to almost its last hair’s- 
breadth of a conclusion,—but . . pardon me,—I should 
scarcely think the discussion of such debatable theories 
conducive to happiness! ” 

“ Happiness! ” . . and the scientist smiled scornfully, 
—“’Tis a fool’s term, and designates a state of being 
that can only pertain to foolishness ! Show me a perfectly 
happy man, and I will show you an ignorant witling, 
light-headed, hardhearted, and of a most powerfully good 
digestion ! Many such there be now wantoning among 
us, and the head and chief of them all is perhaps the most . 
popular numskull in Al-Kyris, . . the Poet,—bah! . . 
let us say the braying Jack-ass in office,—the laurelled 
Sah-luma ! ” 

Theos gave an indignant start,—the hot color flushed 
his brows, . . then he restrained himself by an effort. 

“ Control the fashion of your speech, I pray you, sir! ” 
he said, with excessive haughtiness—“ The noble Laureate 
is my friend and host,—I suffer no man to use his name 
unworthily in my presence! ” 

The sage drew back, and spread out his hands in a 
pacifying manner. 

“ Oh, I crave your pardon, good stranger! ”—he mur¬ 
mured, with a kind of apologetic satire in his acrid voice, 
—“ I crave it most abjectly! Yet to somewhat excuse the 
hastiness of my words, I would explain that a contempt 
for poets and poetry is now universal among persons of 
profound enlightenment and practical knowledge . . ” 


262 


ABB ATE, 


«1 am aware of it! ” interrupted Theos swiftly and 
with passion—“ I am aware that so-called ‘ wise 5 men, 
rooted in narrow prejudice, with a smattering of even 
narrower logic, presume, out of their immeasurable little¬ 
ness, to decry and make mock of the truly great, who, 
thanks to God’s unpurchasable gift of inspiration, can do 
without the study of books or the teaching of pedants,— 
who flare through the world flame-winged and full of 
song, like angels passing heavenward,—and whose voices, 
rich with music, not only sancthy the by-gone ages, but 
penetrate with echoing, undying sweetness the ages still 
to come! Contempt for poets!—Aye, ’tis common !—the 
petty, boastful pedagogues of surface learning ever look 
askance on these kings in exile, these emperors masked, 
these gods disguised! . . but humiliated, condemned, or 
rejected, they are still the supreme rulers of the human 
heart,—and a Love-Ode chanted in the Long-Ago by one 
such fire-lipped minstrel outlasts the history of many 
kingdoms! ” 

He spoke with rapid, almost unconscious fervor, and as- 
he ended raised one'hand with an enthusiastic gesture 
toward the now brilliant sapphire sky and glowing sun. 
The scientist looked at him furtively and smiled,—a bland, 
expostulatory smile. 

“Oh, you are young!—you must be very young! ” he 
said forbearingly . . “ In a little time you will grow out 
of all this ill-judged fanatcism for an Art, the pursuance 
of which is really only wasted labor! Think of the ab¬ 
surdity of it!—what can be more foolish than the writing 
of verse to express or to encourage emotion in the human 
subject, when the great aim of education at the present 
day is to carefully eradicate emotion by degrees, till we 
succeed in completely suppressing it! An outburst of 
feeling is always vulgar,—the highest culture consists in 
being impassively equable of temperament, and absolutely 
indifferent to the attacks of either joy or sorrow. I 
should be inclined to ask you to consider this matter 
more seriously, and from the strictly common-sense point 
of view, did I not know that for you to undertake a 
course of useful meditation while you remain is Sah-luma’s 
companionship would be impossible, . . quite impossible! 
Nevertheless our discourse has been so far interesting, 
that I shall be happy to meet you again and give you an 
opportunity for further converse should you desire it, . * 


ABDATH. 


263 


ask for the Head Professor of Scientific Positivism, any day 
in the Strangers’ Court of the Royal Institutional Collage, 
and I will at once receive you! My name is Mira-Kha- 
bur,—Professor Mira-Khabur .... at your service! ” 

And laying one hand on his breast he bowed profoundly. 

“ A Professor of Positivism who is himself never posi¬ 
tive ! ”—observed Theos with a slight smile. 

“ Ah pardon! ” returned the other gravely—“ On the 
contrary, I am always positive! ... of the wnpositive- 
ness of Positivism! ” 

And with this final vindication of his theories he made 
another stately obeisance and went his way. Theos 
looked after his tall, retreating figure half in sadness, 
half in scorn. This proudly incompetent, learned-igno¬ 
rant Mira-Kharbur was no uncommon character—surely 
there were many like him ! 

Somewhere in the world,—somewhere in far lands of 
which the memory was now as indistinct as the outline of 
receding shores blurred by a falling mist, Theos seemed 
painfully to call to mind certain cold-blooded casuists he 
had known, who had attempted to explain away the mys¬ 
teries of life and death by rule-and line calculations, and 
who for no other reason than their mathematically argued 
denial of God’s existence had gained for themselves a 
temporary, spurious celebrity. Yes! . . . surely he had 
met such men, .... but where? Realizing, with a sort 
of shock, that he was quite as much in the dark as ever 
with regard to any real cognizance of his former place of 
abode and the manner of life he must have led before he 
entered this bewildering city of Al-Kyris, he roused him¬ 
self abruptly, and resolutely banishing the heavy thoughts 
that threatened to oppress his soul, he began without fur¬ 
ther delay to direct his steps towards Sah-luma’s palace. 

He glanced once more at the river before leaving the 
embankment,—it was still blood-red, and every now and 
then, between the sluggish ripples, multitudes of dead 
fish could be seen drifting along in shoals, and tangled in 
nets of slimy weed that at a little distance looked like 
the floating tresses of drowned women. 

It was an uncanny sight, and though it might certainly 
be as the wise Mira-Khabur had stated, the purely natu¬ 
ral effect of purely natural causes, still those natural 
causes were not as yet explained satisfactorily. An earth¬ 
quake or land-slip would perhaps account sufficiently for 


264 


ABDATH. 


everything,—but then an inquiring mind would desire to 
know where the earthquake or land-slip occurred,—and also 
rohy these supposed far-off disturbances should thus 
curiously affect the river surrounding Al-Kyris? An ¬ 
swers to such questions as these were not forthcoming 
either from Professor Mira-Khabur or any other sagacious 
pundit,—and Theos was therefore still most illogically 
and unscientifically puzzled as well as superstitiously 
uneasy. 

Turning up a side street, he quickened his pace, in 
order to overtake a young vendor of wines whom he per¬ 
ceived sauntering along in front of him, balancing a flat 
tray, loaded with thin crystal flasks, on his head. How 
gloriously the sunshine quivered through those delicately 
tinted glass bottles, lighting up the glittering liquid con¬ 
tained within them!—why, they look more like soap-bub¬ 
bles than anything else! . and the boy who carried them 
moved with such a lazy, noiseless grace that he might 
have been taken for a dream-sylph rather than a human 
being! 

“ Hol&, my lad ! ” called Theos, running after him . . 
“ Tell me,—is this the way to the palace of the King’s 
Laureate ? ” 

The youth looked up,—what a beautiful creature he 
was, with his brilliant, dark eyes and dusky, warm com¬ 
plexion ! 

“ Why ask for the King’s Laureate ? ” he demanded with 
a pretty scorn,—“ The people's Sali-lhma lives yonder! ”— 
and he pointed to a mass of towering palms from whose 
close and graceful frondage a white dome rose glistening in 
the clear air,—“ Our Poet’s fame is not the outgrowth of 
a mere king’s favor, ’tis the glad and willing tribute of 
the Nation’s love and praise! A truce to monarchs!— 
they will soon be at a discount in Al-Kyris! ” 

And with a flashing glance of defiance, and a saucy 
smile, he passed on, easily sauntering as before. 

“ A budding republican! ” though Theos amusedly, as 
he pursued his course in the direction indicated. “ That 
is how the ‘ liberty, equality, fraternity ’ system always 
begins—first among street-boys who think they ought to be 
gentlemen,—then among shopkeepers who persuade them¬ 
selves that they deserve to be peers,—then comes a timo 
of topsey-turveydom and fierce contention and by and by 
everything gets shaken together again in the form of a 


ARDATH. 


265 


:f public, wherein the street-boys and shopkeepers are not 
./hit better off than they were under a monarchy—they 
jecome neither peers nor gentlemen, but stay exactly in 
ueir original places, with the disadvantage of finding 
/heir trade decidedly damaged by the change that has 
occurred in the national economy ! Strange that the 
inhabitants of this world should make uch a fuss about 
resisting tyranny and oppression, when each particular 
individual man, by custom and usage, tyrannizes over and 
oppresses his fellow-man to an extent that would be 
simply impossible to the fiercest kings ! ” 

Thus meditating a few steps more brought him to the 
entrance of Sah-luma’s princely abode,—the gates stood 
wide open, and a pleasant murmui of laughter and soft 
ringing floated toward him across the splendid court 
where the great fountains were tossing up to the bright 
sky their straight, glistening columns of snowy spray. 
He listened,—and his heart leaped with an intense relief 
and joy,—Sah-luma, the beloved Sah-luma, was evidently 
at home and as yet unharmed,—these mirthful sounds 
betokened that all was well. The vague trouble and 
depression that had weighed upon his soul for hours now 
vanished completely, and hastening along, he sprang 
lightly up the marble stairs, and into the rainbow-colored, 
spacious hall, where the first person he saw was Zab&stes 
the Critic. 

“An, good Zabastes?” he cried gayly,—“Where is 
thy master Sah-lfima ? Has he returned in safety ? ” 
a In safety?” croaked Zabastes with an accent of 
feonic surprise » . “To be ~ure! . . Is he a baby in swad¬ 
dling-clothes that he cannot be trusted out alone to take care 
<Di himself? safety ?- -aye! I warrant you he is safe 
enough, and oidy enough, and lazy enough to please any 
one of his idiot 'flatterers,.. moreover my ‘master’”— 
and lie emphasized fchio word with indescribable bitter- 
mess— 55 hath slept as soundly as a swine, and hath duly 
bathed with the bunctiliousness of a conceited swan, and 
being suitably combed, perfumed, attired, and throned 
&S becomes his dainty puppetship, is now condescending 
to partake of vulgar food in the seclusion of his own 
apartment. Go thither and you shall find his verse-string¬ 
ing Mightiness nobly enshrined as a god among a worship¬ 
ping crowd of witless maidens,—he hath inquired for you 
r-ont- -'-iniay r^rhw.r w -omewhat of a wonder, seeing that 


266 


ARDATH. ! 

as a rule he concerns his mind with naught save himself! 
Furthermore, he is graciously pleased to be in a manner 
solicitous on behalf of the maiden Niphrata, who hath 
suddenly disappeared from the household, leaving ho mes¬ 
sage to explain the cause of her evanishment. Hath seen 
her ? . . No ? ”—and the old man thumped his stick 
petulantly on the floor as Theos shook his head in the 
^negative—“ ’Tis the only feminine creature I ever had 
patience to speak with,—a modest wench and a gentle 
one, and were it not for her idolatrous adoration of Sah- 
luma, she would be fairly sensible withal. No matter!— 
she has gone ; everything goes, even good women, and 
nothing lasts save folly, of which there shall surely 
never be an end ! ” 

Here apparently conscious that he had shown more feel¬ 
ing in speaking of Niphrata than was usual with him, 
he looked up impatiently and waved his staff toward Sah- 
luma’s study; “ In, in, boy! In, to, the Chief of poets and 
prince of egotists! He waits your service,—he is all 
agape and thirsty for more flattery and delicate cajole¬ 
ment, . . . stuff him with praise, good youth! . . and 
who knows but a portion of his mantle may descend on 
you hereafter and make of you as conceited and pretty a 
bantling bard for the glory of proud posterity ! ” 

And chuckling audibly, he hobbled down a side pas¬ 
sage, while Theos, half angry, half amused, crossed the hall 
quickly, and arrived at the door of the Laureate’s private 
sanctum, where, gently drawing aside the silken draperies, 
he looked in for a moment without being himself perceived. 
What a picture he beheld! . . IIow perfection every shad© 
of color in every line of detail! Sah-luma, reclining in a 
quaintly carved ebony chair, was toying with the fruit and 
wine set out before him on an ivory and gold stand,—his 
dress, simpler than it had been on the previous evening, 
was of fine white linen gathered loosely about his classic fig¬ 
ure,—he wore neither myrtle-wreath nor jewels,—the ex¬ 
pression of his face was serious, even noble, and his atti¬ 
tude was one of languid grace and unstudied ease that be¬ 
came him infinitely well. The maidens of his household 
waited near him,—some of them held flowers,—one, kneel¬ 
ing at a small lyre, seemed just about to strike a few 
chords, when Sah-luma silenced her by a light gesture : 

“ Peace, Zoralin! ” he said softly . . “ I cannot listen: 
thou hast not my Niphr&ta’s tenderness ! ” 


jr~>- ’ • 


ARDA TH. 


267 


. Zoralin, a beautiful, dark girl, with hair as black as 
night, and eyes that looked as though they held suppressed 
yet ever burning fire, let her hands instantly drop from 
the instrument, and sighing, shrank back a little in 
abashed silence. At that moment Theos advanced,—and 
the Laureate sprang up delightedly : 

“ Ah, at last, my friend! ” he cried, enthusiastically 
clasping him by both hands,—Where, in the name of all 
the gods, hast thou been roaming ? TIow did we part ?— 
by my soul I forget!—but no matter!—thou art here once 
more, and aa I live, we will not separate again so easily! 
My noble Theos l ” and he threw one arm affectionately 
around his neck—“ I have missed thee more than I can teil 
these past few hours,—thou dost seem so sympathetically 
conjoined with me, that verily I think I am but half myself 
in thine absence! Come,—sit thee down and break thy 
fast! . . . I almost feared thou hadst met with some mis¬ 
chance on thy way hither, and that I should have had to 
sally forth and rescue thee again even as l did yesternoon! 
Say, hast thou occupied thyself with so much friendly 
consideration on my behalf, as I have on thine?” 

lie laughed gayly as he spoke,—and Theos, looking 
into his bright, beautiful face, was for a moment too 
deeply moved by his own strange inward emotions, to 
utter a word in reply. Why did lie love Sah-luma so ar¬ 
dently, he wondered? Why was it that every smile on 
that proud mouth, every glance of those flashing eyes, 
possessed such singular, overwhelming fascination for 
him ? Tie could not tell,—but he readily yielded to the 
magic influence of his friend’s extraordinary attractive¬ 
ness, and sitting down beside him in the azure light and 
30 ft fragrance of his regal apartment, he experienced a 
sudden sense of rest, satisfaction, and completeness, such 
as may be felt by a man at one with himself, and with all 
the world! 


CHAPTER XXII. 

WASTED PASSIOX'. 

The assembled maidens had retired modestly into the 
background, while the Laureate had thus joyously greeted 
Tus returned guest ; but now, at a signal from' their lord* 


268 


ARDATH. 


they again advanced, and taking up the glittering dishes 
of fruit and the flasks of wine, proffered them in turn to 
Theos with much deferential grace and courtesy. He 
was by no means slow in responding to the humble atten¬ 
tions of these fair ones, . . there was a sort of deliciously 
dreamy enchantment in being waited upon by such 
exquisitely lovely creatures! The oassing touch of their 
little white hands that supported tne heavy golden salvers 
seemed to add new savor to the luscious fare,—the timor¬ 
ous fire of their downcast eyes, softly sparkling through 
the veil of their long lashes, gave extra warmth to the 
ambrosial wine,—and he could not refrain from occasion¬ 
ally whispering a tender flattery or delicate compliment 
in the ear of one or other of his sylph-like servitors, 
though they all appeared curiously unmoved by his choice¬ 
ly worded adulation. Now and then a pale, flickering 
blush or sudden smile brightened their faces, but for the 
most part they maintained a demure and serious de¬ 
meanor, as though possessed by the very spirit of invin¬ 
cible reserve. With Sah-luma it was otherwise,—they hov¬ 
ered about him like butterflies round a rose,—a thousand 
wistful, passionate glances darted upon him, when he, un¬ 
conscious or indifferent, apparently saw nothing,—many 
a deep, involuntary sigh was stifled quickly ere it could 
escape between the rosy lips whose duty it was to 
wreathe themselves with smiles, and Theos noticing these 
things thought: 

“ Heavens ! how this man is loved!—and yet... he, 
out of all men, is perhaps the most ignorant of Love’s 
true meaning 1 ” 

Scarcely had this reflection entered his mind than he 
became bitterly angry with himself for having indulged 
in it. How recreant, how base an idea I . . how incom¬ 
patible with the adoring homage he felt for his friend! 
What!—Sah-lflma,—a Poet, whose songs of Love were so 
perfect* so wildly sweet and soul-entrancing— he, to be 
ignorant of Love’s true meaning ? . . Oh, impossible!— 
and a burning flush of shame rose to Theos’s brow,— 
shame that he could have entertained such a blasphemy 
against his Idol for a moment! Then that curious, vague, 
soft contrition he had before experienced stole over him 
once again—a sudden moisture Ailed his eyes,—and turn¬ 
ing abruptly toward his host he held out his own just 


ARDATB. 


269 


“Drink we the loving-cup together, Sah-lftma! ” he said, 
and his voice trembled a little with its own deep tender¬ 
ness, . . “Pledge me thy faith as I do pledge thee minel 
And for to-day at least let me enjoy thy boon companion¬ 
ship, . . . who knows how soon we may be forced to 
part.. . forever! ” And he breathed the last word softly 
with a faint sigh. 

Sah-lftma looked at him with an expressive glance of 
bright surprise. 

“Part?” he exclaimed joyously—“Nay, not we, my 
friend! . . Not till we find each other tiresome, . . not 
till we prove that our spirits, like over-mettlesome steeds, 
do chafe and fret one another too rudely in the harness of 
custom, . . wherefore then, and then only, ’twill be time 
to break loose at a gallop, and seek each one a wider pas¬ 
ture-land ! Meanwhile, here’s to thee! ”—and bending 
his handsome head he readily drank a deep draught of 
the proffered wine . . “ May all the gods hold fast our 
bond of friendship ! ” 

And with a graceful salute he returned the jewelled cup 
half-empty. Theos at once drained off what yet remained 
within it, and then, leaning more confidentially over the 
Laureate’s chair, he whispered : 

“ Hast thou in very truth forgotten thy rashness of last 
night, Sah-lftma ? Surely thou must guess how unquiet 
I have been concerning thee! Tell me, . . was thy hot 
pursuit in vain? . . or . . didst thou discover the King?” 

“ Peace! ” and a quick frown darkened the smooth 
beauty of Sah-lhma’s face as he grasped Theos’s arm hard 
to warn him into silence,—then forcing a smile he an¬ 
swered in the same low tone . . “ ’Twas not the King, . . 
it could not be! Thou wert mistaken . . 

“ Nay but,” persisted Theos gently—“ convince me of 
mine error! Didst thou overtake and steadily confront 
yon armed and muffled stranger ? ” i 

“Not I! ”—and Sah-llima shrugged his shoulders petu-( 
lantly—“ Sleep fell upon me suddenly when I left thee,— 
and methinks I must have wandered home like a shadow 
in a dream ! Was I not drunk last night ?—Aye!—and 
so in all likelihood wert thou! . . little could we be trusted 
to recognize either King or clown ! ”—He laughed,—then 
added—“ Nevertheless I tell thee once again ’twas not the 
King, . . His Majesty hath too much at stake, to risk so 
dangerous a pleasantry! ” 


270 


ARDATH. 


Theos heard, but he was dissatisfied and ill at eases,. . 
Sah-luma’s careless contentment increased his own dis¬ 
quietude. Just then‘a curious-looking personage entered 
the apartment,—a gray-haired, dwarfish negro, who car¬ 
ried slung across his back a large bundle, consisting of 
several neatly rolled-up pieces of linen, one of which he 
presently detached from the rest and set down before the 
Laureate, who in return gave him a silver coin, at the 
same time asking jestingly : 

“ Is the news worth paying for to-day, Zibya ?—or is it 
the same ill-written, clumsy chronicle of trumpery, com¬ 
mon-place events ?” 

Zibya, slipping the coin he had received into a wide 
leathern pouch which hung from his girdle, appeared to 
meditate a moment,—then he replied: 

“ If the truth must be told, most illustrious, there is 
nothing whatever to interest the minds of the cultured. 
The cheap scribes of the Daily Circular cater chiefly for 
the mob, and do all in their power to foster morbid quali¬ 
ties of disposition and murderous tendencies among the 
lower orders; hence though there is nothing in the news- 
sheet pertaining to Literature or the Fine Arts, there is 
much concerning the sudden death of the young sculptor 
Mr-jalis, whose body was found flung on the banks of the 
river this morning.” 

Theos started, . . Sah-luma listened with placid indiffer¬ 
ence. “’Tis a case of self-slaughter”—pursued Zibya 
chattily . . “ or so say the wise writers who are supposed 
to know everything, . . self-slaughter committed during a 
state of temporary insanity! Well, well! I myself 
would have had a different opinion.” 

“ And a sagacious one no doubt! ” interrupted Sail- 
luma coldly, and with a dangerous flash as of steel in his 
eyes . . “ But . . be advised, good Zibya! . . give thine 
opinion no utterance! ” 

The old negro shrank baek nervously, making numerous 
apologetic gestures, and waited in abashed silence till the 
Laureate’s features regained their wonted soft serenity. 
Then he ventured to speak again,—though not without a 
little hesitation. 

“ Concerning the topics of the hour . .” he murmured 
timorously . . “ My lord is perhaps not aware that the 
river itself is a subject of much excited discussion,—the 
water having changed to a marvellous blood-color during 


ARDATH, 


271 


the night, which singular circumstance hath caused a 
great panic among the populace. Even now, as I passed 
by the embankment, the crowd there was thick as a hive 
of swarming bees ! ” 

He paused, but Sah-luma made no remark, and he con¬ 
tinued more glibly, “ Also, to-day’s 4 Circular ’ contains 
the full statement of the King’s reward for the capture 
of the Prophet Khosrul, and the formal Programme of the 
Sacrificial Ceremonial announced to take place this even¬ 
ing in the Temple of Nagaya. All is set forth in the fine 
words of the petty public scribes, who needs must make 
as much as possible out of little,—and there is likewise a 
so-called fac-simile of the King’s signature, which will 
naturally be of supreme interest to the vulgar. Further¬ 
more it is proclaimed that a grand Combat of wild beasts 
In the Royal Arena will follow immediately after the 
Service in the Temple is concluded,—methinks none will 
go to bed early, seeing there is so full a list of amuse¬ 
ments ! ” 

He paused again, somewhat out of breath,—and Sah- 
hima meanwhile unrolled the linen scroll he had purchased, 
which measured about twenty-four inches in length and 
twenty in width. Carefully ruled black and red lines 
divided it into nearly the same number of columns as 
those on the page of an ordinary newspaper, and it was 
covered with close writing, here and there embellished 
by bold, profusely ornamented headings. One of these, 
“Death of the Sculptor, Nir-j&lis,” seemed to burn into 
Theos’s brain like letters of fire,—how was it, he won¬ 
dered, that the body of that unfortunate victim had been 
found on the shore of the river, when he himself had seen 
it loaded with iron weights, and cast into the lake that 
formed part of Lysia’s fatal garden ? Presently Sah-luma 
passed the scroll to him with a smile, saying lightly: 

“ There, my friend, is a specimen of the true mob-litera¬ 
ture! . . written to-day, forgotten to-morrow! ’Tis a 
droll thing to meditate upon, . the ephemeral nature of 
all this pouring-out of unnecessary words and stale stock- 
phrases !—and, wouldst thou believe it, Theos ! . each little 
paid scribe that adds his poor quota to this ill-assorted 
trash deems himself wiser and greater far than any poet or 
philosopher dead or living! Why, in this very news- 
sheet I have seen the immortal works of the divine Hyspi- 
ros so hacked by the hluut knives of ignorant and vulgar 


criticism that, by my faith! . . were it not for contempt, 
one would be disposed to nail the hands of such trumpery 
scribblers to a post, and scourge their bare backs with 
thorny rods to cure them of their insolence! Nay, even my 
fool Zabastes hath found place in these narrow columns, 
to write his carping diatribes against me,—me, the King’s 
Laureate! . . As I live, his cumbersome diction hath 
caused me infinite mirth, and I have laughed at his crabbed 
and feeble wit till my sides have ached most potently! 
Now get thee gone, fellow !—thou and thy news! ”—and 
he nodded a good-humored dismissal to the deferential 
Zibya, who with his woolly gray head very much on one 
side stood listening gravely and approvingly to all that 
was said,—“ Yet stay ! . . has gossip whispered thee the 
name of the poor virgin self-destined for this evening's 
sacrifice ? ” 

“No, my lord”—responded Zibya promptly—“’Tis 
veiled in deeper mystery than usual. I have inquired of 
many, but in vain,—and even the Chief Flamen of the 
Outside Court of the Temple, always drunk and garrulous 
as he is, can tell me naught of the holy victim’s title or 
parentage. ‘’Tis a passing fair wench! ’ said he, with a 
chuckle . . ‘ That is all I know concerning her ... a 
passing fair wench! ’ Ah! ” and Zibya rolled up the whites 
of his eyes and sighed in a comically contemplative man¬ 
ner . . “If ever a Flamen deserved expulsion from his 
office, it is surely yon ancient, crafty, carnal-minded soul! 

. . so keen a glance for a woman’s beauty is not a needful 
qualification for a servant of the Snake Divine! Metliinks 
we have fallen upon evil days! . . . . maybe the crazed 
Prophet is right after all, and things are coming to ,l 
end! ” 

“Like thy discourse, I hope, Zibya!” observed Sail 
luma, yawning and flinging himself lazily back on his vel¬ 
vet couch,—“ Get hence, and serve thy customers with 
their cheap news, . . depend upon it, some of them arc 
cursing thee mightily for thy delay ! And if thou shoulds;- 
chance to meet the singing-maiden of my household, Ni- 
phr&ta, bid her make haste homeward,—she hath been ab¬ 
sent since the break of morn,—too long for my content/ 
ment. Maybe I did unwisely to give the child her free 
dom,—as slave she would not have presumed to gad 
abroad thus wantonly, without her lord’s permission. 
Say, if thou seest her, that I am wrathful,—the thought 


A2$DATir a 


2/3 

tMiiG anger will be ae vsvvff wing to waft her hither 
-ike a trembling dove,—afraicl all penitent,, and eager for 
my pardon! Remember. - , be sure thou tsD. hsi. of my 
^ep displeasure!” 

Zibya bowed profoundly, his outspread bonds almost 

touching the floe:, in tbe servility of his obeisance, ana 
backed out of the room as numbly as though he were leav¬ 
ing the presence of royalty. When he had gone, Thoos 
looked up from the news-scroll he was perusing: 

“ Is it not strange Niphrata should have left thee thus 
Sah-luma ?” . . he said with a touch of anxiety in his 
tone o . o a Maybe ” . . and he hesitated, conscious of 
Strange, unbidden remorse that suddenly and without any 
apparent reason overwhelmed his conscience . . “May¬ 
be she was not happy ? ” . . . 

“Not happy!” ejaculated Sah-luma amazedly, “Rot 
.sappy with me f . . not happy in my house,—protected 
by my patronage ? Where then, if not here, could she find 
happiness ? ” 

And his beautiful flashing eyes betokened his entire 
and naive astonishment at the mere supposition. Theos 
smiled involuntarily . . how, charming, after all was 
Sah-luma’s sublime egotism !—how almost child-like was 
Ms confidence in himself and his own ability to engender 
My! All at once the young girl Zoralin spoke,—her ac¬ 
cents were low and timorous : 

“May it please my lord Sah-luma to hear me » . she 
Said and paused. 

“ Thy lord Sah-luma hears thee with pleasure, Zoralin,” 
replied the Laureate gently. “ Thou dost speak more 
Sweetly than many a bird doth sing ! ” 

A rich, warm blush crimsoned the maiden's cheeks at 
these dulcet words,—she drew a quick, uneasy breath, and 
then went on,— 

“ I love Niphrata! ” she murmured in a soft tone of 
touching tenderness, . . “ And I have watched her often 
,when she deemed herself unseen, . c she has, methinks, 
shed many tears for sake of some deep, heart-buried sor¬ 
row ! We have lived as sisters, sharing the same room, 
and the same couch of sleep, but alas! in spite of all my 
ord’s most constant kindly favor, Niphrata is not happy, 

. , and . . and I have sometimes thought—” here her 
mellow voice sank into a nervous indistinctness—“thatit 
may he because she loves my lord Sah-luma far too well! ” 
*8 



274 


And as she said this she looked up with a sudden 
affright in her dark, lovely eyes, as though she were 
alarmed at her own presumption. Sah-luma met her 
troubled gaze calmly and with a bright smile of compla¬ 
cent vanity. 

“ And dost thou plead for thine absent friend, Zoralin ? ” 

. . he asked with just sufficient satire in his utterance to 
render it almost cruel . . “ Am I to blame for the foolish 
fancies of all the amorous maidens in Al-Kyris ? . . Many 
there be who love me, . . well,—what then ?—Must I love 
many in return? Nay! Not so! the Poet is the wor¬ 
shiper of Ideal Beauty, and for him the brief passions of 
mortal men and women serve as mere pastime to while 
away an hour! But . . by my faith, thou hast gained 
wondrous boldness in thy speech to prate so glibly of the 
heart’s emotion,—what knowest thou concerning such 
things . . thou, who hast counted scarcely fifteen sum¬ 
mers ! . . hast thou caught contagion from Niphrata, and 
art thou too, sick of love ? ” 

Oh, the dazzling smile with which he accompanied this 
poignant question ! . the pitiless, burning ardor he man¬ 
aged to convey into the sleeping brilliancy of his soft, 
poetic eyes! . . the beautiful languor of his attitude, as 
leaning his head back easily on one arm, he turned upon 
the shrinking girl a look that seemed intended to pierce 
into the very inmost recesses of her soul! The roseate 
color faded from her cheeks, . . white as a marble image 
she stood, her breath coming between her lips in quick, 
frightened gasps. 

“ My lord! . she stammered . . “ I . . Here her 
voice failed her, and suddenly covering her face with her 
hands, she broke into a passion of weeping. Sah-luma’s 
delicate brows darkened into a close frown,—and he waved 
his hand with a petulant gesture of impatience. 

“Ye gods! what fools are women! ” he said wearily. 
“ Ever hovering uncertainly on a narrow verge between 
silly smiles and sillier tears! As I live, they are most 
uncomfortable play-fellows!—and dwelling with them 
long would drive all the inspiration out of man, no mat¬ 
ter how nobly he were gifted! Ye butterflies—ye little 
fluttering souls ! ” and beginning to laugh as readily as he 
had frowned, he addressed the other maidens, who, though 
they did not dare to move or speak, were evidently affected 
by the grief of their companion—“ Go hence all!—and 



ARB A TH. 


275 


take this sensitive baby, Zoralin, into your charge, and 
console her for her fancied troubles—’tis a mere frenzy 
of feminine weakness, and will pass like an April shower. 
But, . . by the Sacred Veil!—if I saw much of woman’s 
weeping, I would discard forever woman’s company, and 
dwell in peaceful hermit fashion alone among the tree- 
tops ! . . so heed the warning, pretty ones! . . Let me 
witness none of your tears if ye are wise,—or else say 
farewell to Sah-lhma, and seek some less easy and less 
pleasing service! ” 

With this injunction he signed to them all to depart,— 
whereupon the awed and trembling girls noiselessly sur¬ 
rounded the still convulsively sobbing Zoralin, and gently 
leading her away, they quickly withdrew, each one mak¬ 
ing a profound obeisance to their imperious master ere 
leaving his presence. When they had finally disappeared 
Sah-lhma heaved a sigh of relief. 

“ Can anything equal the perverseness of these frivolous 
feminine toys! ” he murmured pettishly, turning his head 
round toward Theos as he spoke—“Was ever a more 
foolish child than Zoralin ? .. . Just as I would fain have 
consoled her for her pricking heartache, she must needs 
pour out a torrent of tear-drops to change my humor and 
quench her own delight! ’Tis the most irksome incon¬ 
sistency ! ” 

Theos glanced at him with a vague emotion of wonder 
and self-reproachful sadness. 

“Nay, wouldst thou indeed have consoled her, Sah- 
lftma ? ” he inquired gravely, “ How ? ” 

“ How ? ” and Sah-lhma laughed musically .. “ My sim¬ 
ple friend, dost thou ask me such a babe’s question ? ” . . 
He sprang from his couch, and standing erect, pushed his 
clustering dark hair off his wide, bold brows .. “ Am I 
disfigured, aged, lame, or crooked-iimbed ? . . Cannot 
these arms embrace ?—these lips engender kisses ?—these 
eyes wax amorous ? . . and shall not one brief hour of 
love with me console the weariest maid that ever pined 
for passion ?. . Now, by my faith, how solemn is thy 
countenance ! . . Art thou an anchorite, good Theos, and 
wouldst thou have me scourge my flesh and groan, be¬ 
cause the gods have given me youth and vigorous man¬ 
hood?” 

He drew himself up with an inimitable gesture of pride, 
—his attitude was statuesque and noble,—and Theos 


jr-fiTWATm r 

'■* codatMm as lie would have looked at a Sue 
,/ith a sense of critically satisfied admiration. ' f 
"'Most assuredly I am no anchorite, Sah-lumaP 3 ho 
oaid smiling slightly, yet with a touch of sorrow in Ms 
■Voice. , 4£ But methinks the consolement thou wouldst 
offer to enamoured maids is far more dangerous than 
lasting! Thy love, to them means ruin,—thy embraces 
shame,—thy unthinking passion death! What!—wilt 
thou be a spendthrift of desire ?—wilt thou drain the fond 
scuis ot women as a bee drains the sweetness of flowers ? 
<»-wilt thou, being honey-cloyed, behold them droop and 
Wither around thee, and wilt thou leave them utterly de¬ 
stroyed and desolate ? Hast thou no vestige of a heart, 
my friend ? a poet-heart, to feel the misery of the world t 
» : the patient grief of all-appealing Nature, commingled 
with the dreadful, yet majestic silence of an unknown 
Hod? . . Oh, surely, thou hast this supremest gift of 
genius, «, . this loving, enduring, faithful, sympathetic 
Heart / , e for without it, how shall thy fame be held 
iOiig in remembrance? . . how shall thy muse-grown 
laurels escape decay X Tell me!.and leaning forward he 
'aught his friend’s hand in his eagerness . . “ Thou art 
ot made of stone, .. thou art human,... thou art not 
aempt from mortal suffering ... 
u Hot exempt—no! ” interposed Sah-lhma thoughtlully 
,,But, as yet,—I have never really suffered! ” 

8C Hever really suffered! ” .. Theos dropped the hand 
he held, and an invisible barrier seemed to rise slowly up 
oetween him and his beautiful companion. Never really 
suffered!.. then he was no true poet after all, if he was 
gnorant of sorrow! If he could not spiritually enter 
ito the pathos of speechless griefs and unshed tears,— 

: he could not absorb into his own being the prayers and 
fiaints of all Creation, and utter them aloud in burning 
:-nd immortal language, his calling was in vain, his elec- 
ion futile! This thought smote Theos with the strength 
a sudden blow,—he sat silent, and weighed with a 
;eary feeling of disappointment to which he was unablQ 
o give any fitting expression. jj 

«I have never really suffered, P repeated Sah-lffma 
■lowly % •••“But—I have imagined suffering! That is 
enough for me! The passions, the tortures, the despairs j 
imagination are greater far than'the seeming real? petty j 

Tr-lfb "vh:.-‘»b hi?mo,}' ’••• ' - ■ ‘8rtnrv >,! 


ARB A L£l . 


277 


selves ; indeed, I have often wondered. . ” here his eyes 
grew more earnest and reflective .. “ whether this busy 
working of the brain called 4 Imagination * may not per¬ 
haps be a special phase or supreme effort of Memory , and 
that therefore we do not imagine so much as we remem* 
her. For instance,—if we have ever lived before, our 
present recollection may, in certain exalted states of the 
mind, serve to bring back the shadow-pictures of things 
long gone by,.. good or evil deeds,. . scenes of love and 
strife, . . ethereal and divine events, in which we have 
possibly enacted each our different parts as unwittingly 
as we enact them here! ” . . He sighed and seemed some¬ 
what troubled, but presently continued in a lighter tone. * 
“ Yet, after all, it is not necessary for the poet to person¬ 
ally experience the emotions whereof he writes. The 
divine Hyspiros depicts murderers, cowards, and slaves in 
his sublime Tragedies,—but thinkest thou it was essen¬ 
tial for him to become a murderer, coward, and slave him¬ 
self in order to delineate these characters ? . And I .. I 
write of Love,—love spiritual, love eternal,—love fitted 
for the angels I have dreamt of—but not for such ani¬ 
mals as men,—and what matters it that I know naught 
of such love,. . unless perchance I knew it years ago in 
some far-off fairer sphere! . . For me the only charm of 
worth in woman is beauty! . . Beauty! . . to its entranc¬ 
ing sway my senses all make swift surrender .. ..” 

“ Oh, too swift and too degrading a surrender! ” inter¬ 
rupted Theos suddenly with reproachful vehemence . . 
“Thy words do madden patience!—Better a thousand 
times that thou shouldst perish, Sah-luma, now in the full 
plenitude of thy poet-glory, than thus confess thyseff a 
prey to thine own passions,—a credulous victim of Lysia’s 
treachery! ” 

For one second the Laureate stood amazed, . . the 
next, he sprang upon his guest and grasping him fiercely 
by the throat. 

“ Treachery?” he muttered with white lips . . “Treach¬ 
ery ? . , , Darest thou speak of treachery and Lysia in 
the same breath ? . . O thou rash fool! dost thou blas¬ 
pheme my lady’s name and yet not fear to die? ” 

And his lithe brown fingers tightened their clutch. But 
Theos cared nothing for his own life,—some inward ex¬ 
citation of feeling kept him resolute and perfectly com 
trolled. 



278 


ARDATB. 


“ Kill me, Sah-lftma! ” he gasped—“ Kill me, friend 
whom I love! . . death will be easy at thy hands! De¬ 
prive me of my sad existence, . . ’tis better so, than that 
I should have slain thee last night at Lysia’s bidding! ” 

At this, Sah-lfima suddenly released his hold and 
started backward with a sharp cry of anguish, . . his 
face was pale, and his beautiful eyes grew strained and 
piteous. 

“ Slain me! . . . . Me! . . at Lysia’s bidding! ” he 
murmured wildly . . “ O ye gods, the world grows dark! 
is the sun quenched in heaven ? . . At Lysia’s bidding! 

. . Nay, . . by my soul, my sight is dimmed! .... I 
see naught but flaring red in the air, . . . Why! . . ” 
and he laughed discordantly . . “ thou poor Theos, thou 
shalt use no dagger’s point,—for lo! . . I am dead 
already ! . . Thy words have killed me ! Go, . . tell her 
how well her cruel mission hath sped, .—my very soul is 
slain. . . at her bidding ! Hasten to her, wilt thou! ” . . 
and his accents trembled with pathetic plaintiveness ! . . 
“ Say I am gone \ ... . lost! . drawn into a night of 
everlasting blackness like a taper blown swiftly out by 
the wind, . . tell her that Sah-lfima,—the poet Sah-lftma, 
the foolish-credulous Sah-lftma who loved her so madly is 
no more! ” 

His voice broke, . . his head drooped, . . while Theos, 
whose every nerve throbbed in responsive sympathy with 
the passion of his despair, strove to think of some word 
of comfort, that like soothing balm might temper the bit¬ 
terness of his chafed and wounded spirit, but could find 
none. For it was a case in which the truth must be 
told, . . and truth is always hard to bear if it destroys, 
or attempts to destroy, any one of our cherished self- 
delusions ! 

“ My friend, my friend! ” he said presently with gentle 
earnestness,—“ Control this fury of thy heart! . . Why, 
such unmanly sorrow for one who is not worthy of! 
thee?” J r 

Sah-lftma looked up,—his black, silky lashes were wet 
^ith tears. 

^Not worthy! . . Oh, the old poor consolation!” he 
exclaimed, quickly dashing the drops from his eyes, . . 

worthy?—No! . f wliat mortal woman U ever 
Wyftkf qf a poetV love?—Not one in all the world! 

pflfcjr qv ^worthy, true or treacherous: 





ARB ATH. 


279 


naught can make Lysia otherwise than fair! Fair beyond 
all fairness! . . and I—I was sole possessor of her 
beauty!—for me her eyes warmed int® stars of fire,—for 
me her kisses ripened in their pearl and ruby nest, . . 
all—all for me !—and now! . . . ” He flung himself des¬ 
olately on his couch, and fixed his wistful gaze on his 
companion’s grave, pained countenance,—till all at once a 
hopeful light flashed across his features, . . a light that 
seemed to shine through him like an inwardly kindled 
flame. 

“Ah! what a querulous fool am I! ” he cried, joyously, 
—so joyously that Theos knew not whether to be glad or 
sorry at his sudden and capricious change of mood . . 
“ why should I thus bemoan myself for fancied wrong? 
—Good, noble Theos, thou hast been misled!—My 
Lygia’s words were but to try thy mettle! . . to test thee 
to the core, and prove thee truly faithful as Sah-lftma’s 
friend ! She bade thee slay me! . . Even so!—but 
hadst thou rashly undertaken such a deed, thine own life 
would have paid the forfeit I Now I begin to understand 
it all—’tis plain! ”—and his face grew brighter and 
brighter, as he cheated himself into the pleasing idea his 
own fancy had suggested . . “ She tried thee,—she tempt¬ 
ed thee, . . she found thee true and incorruptible . . 
Ah! ’twas a jest, my friend! ”—and entirely recovering 
from his depression, he clapped his hand heartily on 
Theos’s shoulder—“’Twas all a jest!—and she the fair 
inquisitor will herself prove it so ere long, and make 
merry with our ill-omened fears ! Why, I can laugh now 
at mine own despondency !—come, look thou also more 
cheerily, gentle Theos,—and pardon these uncivil fingers 
that so nearly gripped thee into silence! ”—and he 
laughed—“ Thou art the best and kindest of loyal com¬ 
rades, and I will so assure Lysia of thy merit, that she 
shall institute no more torture-trials upon thy frank and 
trusting nature. Heigho!”—and stretching out his 
arms lazily, he heaved a sigh of tranquil satisfaction— 
“ Methought I was wounded into death! but ’twas the 
mere fancied prick of an arrow after all, and I am well 
again! What, art thou still melancholy ! . . . still som¬ 
bre ! . . Nay, surely thou wilt not be a veritable kill¬ 
joy ! ” 

Theos stood mute and sorely perplexed. He saw at 
once how useless it was now to try and convince Sah- 


280 


ABB ATM. 1 


10m a of any danger threatening him through the inst.iga> 
tion of the woman he loved,—he would never believe it! 
And yet . . . something must be done to put him on his 
guard. Taking up the scroll of the public news, where 
the account of the finding of the body of Nir-jalis was 
written with all that exaggerated attention to repulsive 
details which seems to be a special gift of the cheap re¬ 
porters, Theos pointed to it. 

“ His was a cruel end l ”—he said in a low, uncertain 
voice ,—' c Sah-Mma, canst thou expect mercy from 
woman who has once been so merciless ?” 

“ Bali l ” returned the Laureate lightly. 44 Who and 
what was Mr-jalis? A hewer of stone images—a no¬ 
body 7 —he v,dll not be missed! Besides, he is only one 
of many who have perished thus.” 

44 Only one of many < ” ejaculated Theos with a shudder 
of aversion , . a And yet, . . O thou most reckless and 
misguided soul l * * thou dost love this wanton muj> 
deress l " 

A warm hush tinted Sab-luma's olive skin,-*-Ms hands 
clenched and unclenched slowly as though he held som© 
struggling, prisoned thing, and raising his head he looked 
at his companion full and steady with a singularly solemn* 
and reproving expression in his luminous eyes. 

•'* 4 Hast thou not loved her also ? ” he demanded, a faint* 
serious smile curving his lips as ne spoke, „ . 44 If only for 
the space of some few passing moments, was not thy soul 
ravished, thy heart enslaved, thy manhood concuercd by 
her spell ? . . Aye i <, . Thou dost mink at that!And 
his smile deepened as Theos, suddenly conscience-stricken* 
avoided his friend's too-scrutinizing gaze * * ^ Blame 
pot, therefore, for thine own weakness l 5S ^ 

He paused . . then went on slowly with.:,? 'wedbativ®' 
air . . 44 1 love her, , . yezi —as a man must a ' v/ays Iovq 

the woman that baffles him, 3 . the woman whose moodg? 

are complex and fluctuating as the winds on the sea,—and 
whose humor sways between the softness of the dove and 
the fierceness oii the tiger. Nothing is more fatally fas¬ 
cinating to the masculine 3ense than such & creature, 
more especially if to this temperament is united rare 
physical grace, combined with keen intellectual power* 
’Tis vain to struggle against ohe irresistible witchery exer* 
cised over us by the commingling of beauty and ferocity® 
—we see it in the wildpfeals of the fores? ?he MrrM 


ARDATII. 


281 


soaring birds of the air,—and we like nothing better than 
to hunt it, capture it, tame it . . or . . kill it—as suits 
our pleasure! ” 

He paused again,—and again smiled, ... a grave, re¬ 
luctant, doubting smile such as seemed to Theos oddly 
familiar, suggesting to his bewildered fancy that he must 
have seen it before, on his own face , reflected in a mirror ! 

“ Even thus do I love Lysia! ” continued Sah-luma— 
“ She perplexes me, . . she opposes her will to mine, . . . 
the very irritation and ferment into which I am thrown 
by her presence adds fire to my genius, . . . and but for 
the spur of this never-satiated passion, who knows 
whether I should sing so well! ” 

He was silent for a little space—then he resumed in a 
more ordinary tone: 

“ The wretched Nir-jalis, whose fate thou dost so persist¬ 
ently deplore, deserved his end for his presumption, . . . 
didst thou not hear his insolent insinuation concerning 
the King ? ” 

“ I heard it—yes! ” replied Theos—“ And I saw no 
harm in the manner of his utterance.” 

“No harm!” exclaimed Sah-litma excitedly—“No 
harm! Nay, but I forget! . . . thou art a stranger in 
Al-Kyris, and therefore thou art ignorant of the last words 
spoken by the Sacred Oracle some hundred years or more 
ago. They are these: 

“ * When the High Priestess 
Is the King’s mistress 
Then fall Al-Kyris ! ’ 

’Tis absolute doggerel, and senseless withal,—nevertheless, 
it has caused the enactment of a Law, which is to tho 
effect that the reigning monarch of Al-Kyris shall never, 
under any sort of pretext, confer with the High Priestess 
of the Temple on any business whatsoever,—and that, 
furthermore, he shall never be permitted to look upon her 
face except at times of public service and state ceremo¬ 
nials. Now dost thou not at once perceive how vile were 
the suggestions of Nir-jalis, . . and also how foolish was 
thy fancy last night with regard to the armed masquer¬ 
ader thou didst see in Lysia’s garden ? ” 

Theos made no reply, but sat absorbed in his own reflec¬ 
tions. He began now to understand much that had 
before seemed doubtful and mysterious,—no wonder, he 


282 


ARDATJT. 


thought, that Zephoranim’s fury against the audacious 
Khosrul had been so excessive! For had not the crazed 
Prophet called Lysia an “ unvirgined virgin and Queen- 
Courtesan”? . . and, according to Sah-l&ma’s present 
explanation, nothing more dire and offensive in the way 
of open blasphemy could be uttered! Yet the question still. 
remained—was Khosrftl right or wrong ? This was a prob- j 
lem which Theos longed to investigate and yet recoiled! 
from,—instinctively he felt that upon its answer hung the' 
fate of Al-Kyris,—and also, what just then seemed more 
precious than anything else,—the life of Sah-lfuna. He 
could not decide with himself why this was so,—he 
simply accepted his own inward assurance that so it was. 
Presently he inquired: 

“ Ilow comes it, Sah-lhma, that the corpse of Nir-j&lis 
was found on the shores of the river? Did we not see it 
weighted with iron and laid elsewhere ....?” 

“ O simpleton! ” laughed Sah-lfuna—“ Tliinkest thou 
Lysia’s lake of lilies is a common grave for criminals ? 
The body of Nir-j&lis sank therein, ’tis true,. . but was 
there no after-means of lifting it from thence, and placing 
it where best such carrion should be found ? Hath not 
the High Priestess of Nagaya slaves enough to work 
her will? . . . Yerily thou dost trouble thyself over¬ 
much concerning these trivial every-day occurrences,— 
I marvel at thee!—Hundreds have drained the Silver 
Nectar gladly for so fair a woman’s sake,—hundreds will 
drain it gladly still for the mere privilege of living some 
brief days in the presence of such peerless beauty! . . 
But,—speaking of the river—didst thou remark it on thy 
way hither ? ” 

“Aye!” responded Theos dreamily— a ’Twas red as 
blood!” 

“ Strange! ” and Sah-lhma looked thoughtful for an 
instant, then rousing himself, said lightly, “ ’Tis from some 
simple cause, no doubt—yet ’twill create a silly panic 
in the city—and all the fanatics for Khosrfd’s new creed 
will creep forth, shouting afresh their prognostications of 
death and doom. By my faith, ’twill be a most desperate 
howling! . . . . and I’ll not walk abroad till the terror 
hath abated. Moreover, I have work to do,—some lately 
budded thoughts of mine have ripened into glorious con¬ 
clusion,—ancl Zabastes hath orders presently to attend 
me that he may take my lines down from mine own die- 


ARDATR. 


283 


tation. Thou skalt hear a most choice legend of love an 
thou wilt listen—” here he laid his hand affectionately on 
Theos’s shoulder—“ a legend set about, methinks, with 
wondrous jewels of poetic splendor! .... ’tis a rare 
privilege I offer thee, my friend, for as a rule Zabastes 
is my only auditor,—but I would swear thou art no plagi¬ 
arist, and wouldst not dishonor thine own intelligence 
so far as to filch pearls of fancy from another minstrel! 
As well steal my garments as my thoughts!—for verily the 
thoughts are the garments of the poet’s soul,—and the 
common thief of things petty and material is no whit more 
contemptible than he who robs an author of ideas where¬ 
in to deck the bareness of his own poor wit! Come, 
place thyself at ease upon this cushioned couch, and 
give me thy attention, ... I feel the fervor rising 
within me, . . . I will summon Zab&stes, ...” Here he 
pulled a small silken cord which at once set a clanging 
bell echoing loudly through the palace, . . . “ And thou 
shalt freely hear, and freely judge, the last offspring of 
my fertile genius,—my lyrical romance 4 Nourhhlma / ’ ” 
Theos started violently, . . .lie had the greatest dif¬ 
ficulty to restrain the anguished cry that arose to his lips. 
“ N'ourhdlma / ” O memory! . slow-filtering, reluctant 
memory! . . why, why was his brain thus tortured 
with these conflicting pang, of piteous recollection! 
Little by little, like sharp deep stabs of nervous suffering, 
there came back to him a few faint, fragmentary sugges¬ 
tions which gradually formed themselves into a distinct 
and comprehensive certainty, . “ Nourhdlma ” was the 
title of his ownpoem ,—the poem he had written, surely not 
so very long ago, among the mountains of the Pass of 
Dariel! 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

44 N0TTRHALMA.” 

IIis first emotion on making this new mental rediscovery 
was, as it had been before in the King’s audience-hall, 
one of absolute terror , . . . . feverish, mad terror which 
for a few moments possessed him so utterly that, turning 
away, he buried his aching head among the cushion 
where he reclined, in order to hide from his companion’s 
eyes any outward sign that might betray his desperate 


284 


ARDATff, 


misery. Clenching his hands convulsively, he silently, 
and with all his strength, combated the awful horror 
of himself that grew up spectrally within him,—the 
dreadful, distracting uncertainty of his own identity that 
again confused his brain and paralyzed his reason. 

At last, he thought wildly, at last he knew the meaning 
of Hell! . . the frightful spiritual torment of a baffled 
intelligence set adrift among the wrecks and shadows of 
things that had formerly been its pride an'", glory! 
What was any physical suffering ^ ed to such a 
frenzy of mind-agony ? Nothing ! . . less an nothing! 
This was the everlasting thirst and fire :poken of so 
vaguely by prophets and preachers,—the thirst and fire 
of the Soul’s unquenchable longing to unravel the dismal 
tangle of its own bygone deeds, . . the striving forever 
in vain to steadfastly establish the wavering mystery of 
its own existence ! 

“ O God ! . . God !—what hast Thou made of me I ” 
he groaned inwardly, as he endeavored to calm the 
tempest of his unutterable despair,—“ Who am I ? . . 
Who was I in that far Past which, like the pale spirit of 
a murdered friend, haunts me so indistinctly yet so 
threateningly ! Surely the gift of Poesy was mine ! . . 

. . surely I too could weave the harmony of words and 
thoughts into a sweet and fitting music, . . how comes 
it then that all Sah-luma’s work is but the reflex of my 
own f O woeful, strange, and bitter enigma ! . . when 
shall it be unraveled ? ‘ N~ourh(Xlma /’ ’Twas the name 
of what I deemed my masterpiece ! . . O silly masterpiece, 
if it prove thus easy of imitation ! . . Yet stay . . let me 
be patient! . . titles are often copied unconsciously by 
different authors in different lands, . . and it may chance 
that Sah-lftma’s poem is after all his own,—not mine. 
Not mine, as were the ballads and the love-ode he chanted 
to the King last night! . . O Destiny ! . . inscrutable, 
pitiless Destiny ! . . rescue my tortured soul from chaos! 

. o declare unto me who ,—who is the plagiarist and thief 
of Song . . myself or Sah-lttma?” 

The more he perplexed his mind with such questions, 
the deeper grew the darkness of the inexplicable dilemma, 
to which a fresh obscurity was now added in his suddenly 
distinct and distressful remembrance of the “ Pass of 
Darieir Where was this place, he wondered wearily ?— 
When had he seen it ? . , whom had he met there ?-• 


ABDAT3. 


285 ’ 


and how had he come to Al-Kyris from thence ? No 
answer could his vexed brain shape to these demands, . . 
he recollected the “ Fass of Dariel ” just as he recol¬ 
lected the “ Field of Ardathf —without the least idea as 
to what connection existed between them and his own 
personal adventures. Presently controlling himself, he 
raised his head and ventured to look up,—Sah-lftma stood 
beside him, his fine face expressive of an amiable solicitude. 

“Was the sunshine too strong, my friend, that thou 
didst thus bury thine eyes in thy piilow ? ” he inquired 
. . “ Pardon my discourteous lack of consideration for 
thy comfort! . . I love the sun myself so well that 
methinks I could meet his burning rays at full noon-day 
and yet take pleasure in the warmth of such a golden 
smile ! Bat thou perchance art unaccustomed to the light 
of Eastern lands,—wherefore thy brows must not be 
permitted to ache on, uncared for. See !—I have lowered 
the awnings, . . they give a pleasant shade,—and in 
very truth, the heat to-day is greater far than ordinary; 
one would think the gods had kindled some new fire in 
heaven ! ” 

And as he spoke he took up a long palm-leaf fan and 
waved it to and fro with an exquisitely graceful move¬ 
ment of wrist and arm, while Theos gazing at him in 
mute admiration, forgot his own griefs for the time in 
the subtle, strange, and absorbing spell exercised upon 
him by his host’s irresistible influence. Just then, too, 
Sah-luma appeared handsomer than ever in the half- 
subdued tints of radiance that flickered through the 
lowered pale-blue silken awnings : the effect of the room 
thus shadowed was as of a soft azure mountain mist lit 
sideways by the sun,—a mist through which the white- 
garmented, symmetrical figure of the Laureate stood forth 
in curiously brilliant outlines, as though every curve of 
supple shoulder and proud throat was traced with a pencil 
of pure light. Scarcely a breath of air made its way 
through the wide-open casements—the gentle dashing 
noise of the fountains in the court alone disturbed the 
deep, warm stillness of the morning, or the occasional 
sweeping rustle of peacocks’ plumes as these stately 
birds strutted majestically up and down, up and down, 
on the marble terrace outside. 

Soothed by the luxurious peace of his surroundings, 
t&e deltrium of Theos’s bewildering affliction gradually 


ARDATH. 


2SS 

abated,—his tempest-tossed mind regained to a certain 
extent its equilibrium,—and falling into easy converse 
with his fascinating companion, he was soon himself 
agaii^,—that is, as much himself as his peculiar condition 
permitted him to be. Yet he was not altogether free from 
a certain eager and decidedly painful suspense with 
regard to the “ Nourlidlma ” problem,—and he was 
conscious of what he in his own opinion considered an 
absurd and unnecessary degree of excitement, when the 
door of the apartment presently opened to admit Zab&stes, 
who entered, carrying several sheets of papyrus and 
other material for writing. 

The old Critic’s countenance was expressively glum and 
ironical,—he, however, was compelled, like all the other 
paid servants of the household, to make a low and respect¬ 
ful obeisance as soon as he found himself in Sah-lkma’s 
presence,—an act of homage which he performed awk¬ 
wardly, and with evident ill-will. His master nodded 
condescendingly in response to his reluctant salute, and 
signed to him to take his place at a richly carved writing- 
table adorned with the climbing figures of winged cupids 
exquisitely wrought in ivory. He obeyed, shuffling thither 
uneasily, and sniffing the rose-fragrant air as he went 
like an ill-conditioned cur scenting a foe,—and seating 
himself in a high-backed chair, he arranged his garments 
fussily about him, rolled up his long embroidered sleeves 
to the elbow, and spread his writing implements all over 
the desk in front of him with much mock-solemn osten¬ 
tation. Then, rubbing his lean hands together, he gave 
a stealthy glance of covert derision round at Sah-lffma 
and Theos,—a glance which Theos saw and in his heart 
resented, but which Sah-lftma, absorbed in his own reflec¬ 
tions, apparently failed to notice. 

“ All is in readiness, my lord! ” he announced in his 
disagreeable croaking tones,—“ Here are the clean and 
harmless slips of river-reed waiting to be soiled and 
spotted with my lord’s indelible thoughts,—here also are 
the innocent quills of the white heron, as yet unstained 
by colored writing-fluid whether black, red, gold, silver, 
or purple! Mark you, most illustrious bard, the touch¬ 
ing helplessness and purity of these meek servants of a 
scribbler’s fancy! . . Blank papyrus and empty quills! 
Bethink you seriously whether it were not better to 
leay6 th&ta thu& unblemished, the simple products of 


ABirA TIL 


287 

unfaulty Nature, than use them to indite the wondrous 
things of my lord’s imagination, whereof, all wondrous 
though they seem, no man shall ever be the wiser! 

And he chuckled, stroking his stubbly gray beard the 
while with a blandly suggestive, yet malign look directed 
at Sah-lftma, who met it with a slight, cold smile of 
I faintly amused contempt. 

i “ Peace, fool 1 ” he said,—“ That barbarous tongue of 
thine is like the imperfect clapper of a broken bell that 
strikes forth harsh and undesired sounds suggesting 
nothing! Thy present duty is to hear, and not to speaR, 
—therefore listen discerningly and write with exactitude, 
so shall thy poor blank scrolls of reed grow rich with 
gems, . . gems of high poesy that the whole world shall 
hoard and cherish miser-like when the poet who created 
their bright splendor is no more! ” 

He sighed—a short, troubled sigh,—and stood for a 
moment silent in an attitude of pensive thought. Theos 
watched him yearningly,—waiting in almost breathless 
suspense till he should dictate aloud the first line of his 
poem. Zabastes meanwhile settled himself more com¬ 
fortably in his chair, and taking up one of the long 
quills with which he was provided, dipped it in a reddish- 
purple liquid which at once stained its point to a deep 
roseate hue, so that when the light flickered upon it 
from time to time, it appeared as though it were tipped 
with fire. How intense the heat was, thought Theos!— 
as with one hand he pushed his clustering hair from his 
brow, not without noticing that his action was imitated 
almost at once by Sah-lftma, who also seemed to feel the 
oppressiveness of the atmosphere. And what a blaze of 
blue pervaded the room! . . delicate ethereal blue as of 
shimmering lakes and summer skies melted together into 
one luminous radiance, . . . radiance that, while filmy, 
was yet perfectly transparent, and in which the Lau¬ 
reate’s classic form appeared to be gloriously enveloped 
like that of some new descended god! 

Theos rubbed his eyes to cure them of their dazzled 
ache, . . what a marvellous scene it was to look upon, he 
mused ! . . would he,—could lie ever forget it? Ah no! 
—never, never! not till his dying day would he be able 
to obliterate it from his memory,—and who could tell 
whether even after death he might not still recall it! 

Just then Sah-lfima raised his hand by way of signal to 



288 


AlxBA fH. 

Zab&stes,... his face became earnest, pathetic, even 
grand in the fervent concentration of his thoughts, . . . 
he was about to begin his dictation, . . . now . • . 
now! . . and Theos leaned forward nervously, his 

heart beating with apprehensive expectation . . . Hush! 

. . . the delicious, suave melody of his friend’s voice 
penetrated the silence like the sweet harmonic of a harp¬ 
string . . 

“Write—” said he slowly . . “ write first the title of 
my poem thus: 4 Kourhalma: A Love-Legend of the 

Past.’ ” 

There was a pause, during which the pen of Zabastes 
traveled quickly over the papyrus for a moment, then 
stopped. Theos, almost suffocated with anxiety, could 
hardly maintain even the appearance of calmness,—the 
title proclaimed, with its second appendage, was precisely 
the same as that of his own work—but this did not now 
affect him so much. What he waited for with such pain¬ 
fully strained attention was the first line of the poem. If 
it was his line he knew it already!—it ran thus: 

“A central sorrow dwells in perfect joy !—■” 

Scarcely had he repeated this to himself inwardly, than 
Sah-lfima, with majestic grace and sweetness of utterance, 
dictated aloud: 

“ A central sorrow dwells in perfect joy 1 ” 

“Ah GodT 

The sharp cry, half fierce, half despairing, broke from 
Theos’s quivering lips in spite of all the efforts he made 
to control his agitation, and the Laureate turned toward 
him with a surprised and somewhat irritated movement 
that plainly evinced annoyance at the interruption. 

“ Pardon, Sah-ldma ! ” he murmured hastily. “ ’Twas a 
slight pang at the heart troubled me,—a mere noth¬ 
ing !—I take shame to myself to have cried out for such, 
a pin’s prick ! Speak on !—thy first line is as soft as 
honey dew,—as suggestive as the light of dawn on sleep¬ 
ing flowers! ” 

And, leaning dizzily back on his couch, he closed his 
eyes to shut in the hot and bitter tears that welled up 
rebelliously and threatened to fall, notwithstanding his en¬ 
deavor to restrain them. His head throbbed and burned 
as though a chaplet of fiery thorns encircled it, instead 


ARDATH. 289 

of the once desired crown of Fame he had so fondly 
dreamed of winning! 

Fame ?. . Alas! that bright, delusive vision had fled 
forever,—there were no glory-laurels left growing for 
him in the fields of poetic art and aspiration,—Sah-lfima, 
the fortunate Sah-lfima, had gathered and possessed 
them all! Taking everything into serious consideration, 
he came at last to the deeply mortifying conclusion that it 
must he himself w'ho was the plagiarist,—the unconscious 
imitator of Sah-lfima’s ideas and methods,.. and the worst 
of it was that his imitation was so terribly exact! 

Oh, how heartily he despised himself for his poor and 
pitiful lack of originality ! Down to the very depths of 
humiliation he sternly abased his complaining, struggling, 
wounded, and sorely resentful spirit, . . he then and there 
became the merciless executioner of his own claims to 
literary honor,—and deliberately crushing all his past 
ambition, mutinous discontent and uncompliant desires 
with a strong master-hand he lay quiet.... as patient¬ 
ly unmoved as is a dead man to the wrongs inflicted on 
his memory .... and forced himself to listen resigned¬ 
ly to every glowing line of his, . . no, not his, but Sah- 
lfima’s poem, . . the lovely, gracious, delicate, entrancing 
poem he remembered so well! And by and by, as each 
mellifluous stanza sounded softly on his ears, a strangely 
solemn tranquillity swept over him,—a most soothing 
halcyon calm, as though some passing angel’s hand had 
touched his brow in benediction. 

He looked at Sah-lfima, not enviously now but all ad¬ 
miringly,—it seemed to him that he had never heard a 
sweeter, tenderer music than the story of “ JVourhdlma” 
as recited by his friend. And so to that friend he silently 
awarded his own wished-for glory, praise, and everlasting 
fame !—that glory, praise, and fame which had formerly 
allured his fancy as being the best of all the world could 
offer, but which he now entirely and willingly relinquish¬ 
ed in favor of this more deserving and dear comrade, 
whose superior genius he submissively acknowledged! 

There was a great quietness everywhere,—the rising 
and falling inflections of Sah-lfima’s soft, rich voice rather 
deepened than disturbed the stillness,—the pen of Zabastes 
glided noiselessly over the slips of papyrus,—and the 
small sounds of the outer air, such as the monotonous hum 
of bees among the masses of lily-bloom that towered in 
19 r""’- 


ARDATH. 


290 

white clusters between the festooned awnings, the thirsty 
twittering of birds hiding under the long palm leaves to 
shelter themselves from the heat, and the incessant splash 
of the fountains, ... all seemed to be, as it were, mere 
appendages to enhance the breathless hush of nature. 
Presently Sah-lftma paused,—and Zabastes, heaving a 
sigh of relief, looked up from his writing, and laid down 
his pen. 

*' The work is finished, most illustrious ? ” he demanded, 
a curious smile playing on his thin, satirical lips. 

“ Finished ? ” echoed Sah-lfima disdainfully—“ Nay,— 
’tis but the end of the First Canto,” 

The scribe gave vent to a dismal groan. 

“Ye gods!” he exclaimed—“Is there more to come of 
this bombastic ranting and vile torturing of phrases un¬ 
heard-of and altogether unnatural ! O Sah-lftma!—mar¬ 
vellous Sah-lfima ! twaddler Sah-luma! what a brain-box 
is thine! . . How full of dislocated word-puzzles and 
similes gone mad! Now, as I live, expect no mercy from 
me this time! ” . . and he shook his head threatening¬ 
ly,—“ For if the public news-sheet will serve me as mine 
anvil, I will so pound thee in pieces with the sledge-ham¬ 
mer of my criticism, that, by the Ship of the Sun ! . . for 
once Al-Kyris shall be moved to laughter at thee ! Mark 
me, good tuner-up of tinkling foolishness! . . I will so 
choose out and handle thy feeblest lines that they shall 
seem but the doggerel of a street ballad-monger ! I will 
give so bald an epitome of this sickly love-tale that it shall 
appear to all who read my commentary the veriest trash 
that ever poet penned ! . . Moreover, I can most admirably 
misquote thee, and distort thy meanings with such excel¬ 
lent bitter jesting, that thou thyself shall scarcely recognize 
thine own production ! By Nagaya’s Shrine ! what a feast 
’twill be for my delectation ! ”—and he rubbed his 
hands gleefully—“ With what a weight of withering 
analysis I can pulverize this idol of 4 Nourhdlma ’ into the 
dust and ashes of a common-sense contempt! ” 

While Zab&stes thus spoke, Sah-lhma had helped him¬ 
self, by way of refreshment, to two ripe figs, in whose 
luscious crimson pulp his white teeth met, with all the 
enjoying zest of a child’s healthy appetite. He now held 
up the rind and stalks of these devoured delioacies, and 
smiled. 

“Thus wilt thou swallow up my poem in thy glib 


ABDATR. 


291 


clumsiness, Zab&stes! ” he said lightly—“ And thus wilt 
thou hold up the most tasteless portions of the whole for 
the judgment of the public! 5 Tis the manner of thy craft, 
—yet see! ”—and with a dexterous movement of his arm 
he threw the fruit-peel through the window far out into 
the garden beyond—“ There goes thy famous criticism l ” 
and he laughed , . “ And those ffha$ taste the fruit itself 
at first hand will not soon forget its flavor! Nevertheless 
I hope indeed that thou wilt strive to slaughter me with 
thy blunt paper sword! I do most mirthfully relish the 
one-sided combat, in which I stand in silence to receive thy 
blows, myself unhurt and tranquil as a marble god whom 
ruffians rail upon! Do I not pay thee to abuse me? . . 
here, thou crusty soul!—drink and be content! ”—And 
with a charming condescension he handed a full goblet of 
wine to his cantankerous Critic, who accepted it ungra¬ 
ciously, muttering in his beard the necessary words of 
thanks for his master’s consideration,—then, turning to 
Theos, the Laureate continued: 

“ And thou, my friend, what dost thou think of ‘Nour- 
hdlma ’ so far ? Hath it not a certain exquisite smooth¬ 
ness of rhythm like the ripple of a woodland stream clear- 
Winding through the reeds ? . . and is there not a tender 
Witchery in the delineation of my maiden-heroine, so 
warmly fair, so wildly passionate? Methinks she doth 
resemble some rich flower of our tropic fields, blooming 
at sunset and dead at moonrise! ” 

Theos waited a moment before replying. Truth to tell, 
he was inwardly overcome with shame to remember how 
wantonly he had copied the description of this same 
Nourhalma! . . and plaintively he wondered how he 
could have unconsciously committed so flagrant a theft l 
Summoning up all his self-possession, however, he an¬ 
swered bravely: 

“ Thy work, Sah-lftma, is worthy of thyself! . . need I 
say more? . . Thou hast most aptly proved thy claim upon 
the whole world’s gratitude, . . . such lofty thoughts, . . 
such noble discourse upon love,—such high philosophy, 
wherein the deepest, dearest dreams of life are grandly 
pictured in enduring colors,—these things are gifts to poor 
humanity whereby it must become enriched and proud I 
Thy name, bright soul, shall be as a quenchless star on the 
dark brows of melancholy Time, . . men gazing thereat 
shall woMer and adore ? —and even L the least amon^thy 


292 


ABDATH. 


friends, may also win from thee a share of glory! For* 
simply to know thee,—to listen to thy heaven-inspired 
utterance, might bring the most renownless student some 
reflex of thine honor! Yes, thou art great, Sah-luma! . . 
great as the greatest of earth’s gifted sons of song!—and 
N with all my heart I offer thee my homage, and pride my¬ 
self upon the splendor of thy fame! ” 

And as the eager, enthusiastic words came from his lips, 
he beheld Sah-luma’s beautiful countenance brighten more 
and more, till it appeared mysteriously transfigured into 
a majestic Angel-face that for one brief moment startled 
him by the divine tenderness of its compassionate smile! 
This expression, however, was transitory,—it passed, and 
the dark eyes of the Laureate gleamed with a merely 
serene and affectionate complacency as he said: 

“ I thank thee for thy praise, good Theos!—thou art 
indeed the friendliest of critics ! Hadst thou thyself been 
the author of ‘ Nourhdlma ’thou couldst not have spoken 
with more ardent feeling! Were ZaMstes like thee, dis¬ 
cerningly just and reasonable, he would be all unfit for 
his vocation,—for ’tis an odd circumstance that praise in 
the public news-sheet does a writer more harm than good, 
while ill-conditioned and malicious abuse doth very ma¬ 
terially increase and strengthen his reputation. Yet, after 
all, there is a certain sense in the argument,—for if much 
eulogy be penned by the cheap scribes, the reading popu¬ 
lace at once imagine these fellows have been bribed to 
give their over-zealous approval, or that they are close 
friends and banquet-comrades of the author whom they 
arduously uphold, . . . whereas, on the contrary, if they 
indulge in bitter invective, flippant gibing, or clumsy satire, 
like my amiable Zabastes here . and he made an 
airy gesture toward the silent yet evidently chafing Critic, 

. . “ (and, mark you !— he is not bribed, but merely paid, 
fair wages to fulfil his chosen and professed calling)— 

S why, thereupon the multitude exclaim— ‘ What ! this poet 
hath such enemies ?—nay, then, how great a genius he 
, must be!”—and forthwith they clamor for his work, which, 
if it speak not for itself, is then and only then to be deemed 
faulty, and meriting oblivion. ’Tis the People’s verdict 
which alone gives fame.” 

“ And yet the people are often ignorant of what is 
noblest and best in literature! ” observed yheos n^usi$gly* 
“ Iffior&iit iii some ways, yes!” agreed . 


ABLATE. 


293 


“But in many others, no! They may be ignorant as to 
why they admire a certain thing, yet they admire it all 
the same, because their natural instinct leads them so to 
do. And this is the special gift which endows the uncult¬ 
ured masses with an occasional sweeping advantage over 
the cultured few,—the superiority of their Instinct. As 
in cases of political revolution for example,—while the 
finely educated orator is endeavoring by all the force of 
artful rhetoric to prove that all is in order and as it should 
be, the mob, moved by one tremendous impulse, discover 
for themselves that everything is wrong, and moreover 
that nothing will come right, unless they rise up and take 
authority, . . . accordingly, down go the thrones and the 
colleges, the palaces, the temples, and the law-assemblies, 
all like so many toys before the resistless instinct of the 
people, who revolt at injustice, and who feel and know 
when they are injured, though they are not clever enough 
to explain where their injury lies. And so, as they cannot 
talk about it coherently, any more than a lion struck by 
an arrow can give a learned dissertation on his wound, 
they act , . . and the heat and fury of their action up¬ 
heaves dynasties! Again,—reverting to the question of 
taste and literature,—the mob, untaught and untrained in 
the subtilties of art, will applaud to the echo certain grand 
and convincing home-truths set forth in the plays of the 
divine Hyspiros,—simply because they instinctively feel 
them to be truths, no matter how far they themselves 
maybe from acting up to the standard of morality therein, 
contained. The more highly cultured will hear the same 
passages unmoved, because they, in the excess of arti¬ 
ficially gained wisdom, have deadened their instincts so far, 
that while they listen to a truth pronounced, they already 
consider how best they can confute it, and prove the 
same a lief! Honest enthusiasm is impossible to the 
over-punctilious and pedantic scholar,—but on the other 
hand, I would have it plainly understood that a mere 
brief local popularity is not Fame, . . No ! for the author 
who wins the first never secures the last. What I mean 
is, that a book or poem to be great, and keep its greatness 
hereafter, must be judged worthy by the natural instinct 
of peoples. Their decision, I own, may be tardy,—their 
hesitation may be prolonged through a hundred or more 
years,—but their acceptance, whether it be declared in the 
author’s life-time or ages after his death, must be conskh 


294 


ABDATH . 


ered final. I would add, moreover, that this world- wide 
decision has never yet been, and never will be, hastened 
by any amount of written criticism,—it is the responsive 
beat of the enormous Pulse of Life that thrills through 
all mankind, high and low, gentle and simple,—its great 
throbs are slow and solemnly measured,—yet if once it 
answers to a Poet’s touch, that Poet’s name is made glori¬ 
ous forever! ” 

He spoke with a rush of earnestness and eloquence that 
was both persuasive and powerful, and he now stood silent 
and absorbed, his dreamy eyes resting meditatively on 
the massive bust of the immortal personage he called 
Hyspiros, which smiled out in serene, cold whiteness from 
the velvet-shadowed shrine it occupied. Theos watched 
him with fascinated and fraternal fondness, . . did ever 
man possess so dulcet a voice, he thought ? . . so grave 
and rich and marvellously musical, yet thrilling with such 
heart-moving suggestions of mingled pride and plaintive¬ 
ness? 

“ Thou art a most alluring orator, Sah-liima! ” he said 
suddenly—“ Methinks I could listen to thee all day and 
never tire! ” 

“ I’ faith, so could not I! ” interposed Zabastes grimly. 
“For when a bard begins to gabble goose-like plati¬ 
tudes which merely concern his own vocation, the gods 
only know when he can be persuaded to stop! Nay, ’tis 
more irksome far than the recitation of his professional 
jingle—for to that there must in time come a merciful 
fitting end, but, as I live, if ’twas my custom to say 
prayers, I wo aid pray to be delivered from the accursed 
volubility of a versifier’s tongue! And perchance it will 
not be considered out of my line of duty if I venture to 
remind my most illustrious and renowned master —” this 
with a withering sneer,—“ that if he has any more re¬ 
markable nothings to dictate concerning this particularly 
inane creation of his fancy ‘ NourhcUmaJ ’twill be weil 
that we should proceed therewith, for the hours wax late 
and the sun veereth toward his House of Noon.” 

And he spread out fresh slips of papyrus and again 
prepared his long quill. 

Sah-lftma smiled, as one who is tolerant of the whims 
of a hired buffoon,—and, this time seating himself in his 
ebony chair, was about to commence dictating his Second 
Canto when Theos, yielding to his desire to speak aloud 


ARE ATE. 


295 


the idea that had just flashed across his brain, said 
abruptly: 

“Has it ever seemed to thee, Sah-lflma, as it now does 
to me, that there is a strange resemblance between thy 
imaginative description of the ideal ‘ NourhdXma] and the 
actual charms and virtues of thy strayed singing-maid 
Niphr&ta?” 66 

Sah-lftma looked up, thoroughly astonished, and laughed. 

“No!—Yerily I have not traced, nor can I trace the 
smallest vestige of a similarity! Why, good Theos, there 
is none!—not the least in the world,—for this heroine of 
mine, Nourh&lma, loves in vain, and sacrifices all, even her 
innocent and radiant life, for love, as thou wilt hear in the 
second half of the poem,—moreover she loves one who is 
utterly unworthy of her faithful tenderness. Now Ni- 
phr&ta is a child of delicate caprice . . . she loves me,— 
me, her lord,—and methinks I am not negligent or un¬ 
deserving of her devotion! . . again, she has no strength 
of spirit,—her timorous blood would freeze at the mere 
thought of death,—she is more prone to play with flowers 
and sing for pure delight of heart than perish for the 
sake of love ! ’Tis an unequal simile, my friend!—as 
well compare a fiery planet with a twinkling dewdrop, as 
draw a parallel between the heroic ideal maid 4 Nourh&lma’ 
—and my fluttering singing-bird, Niphr&ta! ” 

Theos sighed involuntarily,—but forcing a smile, let the 
subject drop and held his peace, while Sah-lfima, taking 
up the thread of his poetical narrative, went on reciting. 
When the story began to ripen toward its conclusion he 
grew more animated, . . . rising, he paced the room as 
he declaimed the splendid lines that now rolled gloriously 
one upon another like deep-mouthed billows thundering 
on the shore,—his gestures were all indicative of the 
fervor of his inward ecstasy,—his eyes flashed,—his 
features glowed with that serene, proud light of con¬ 
scious power and triumph that rests on the calm, wide 
brows of the sculptured Apollo,—and Theos, leaning one 
arm in a half-sitting posture, contemplated him with a 
curious sensation of wistful eagerness and passionate pain, 
such as might be felt by some forgotten artist mysteriously 
permitted to come out of his grave and wander back to 
earth, there to see his once-rejected pictures hung in 
places of honor among the world’s chief treasures. 
t A strange throb of melancholy satisfaction stirred bis 


296 


ABDATI1. 


pulses as he reflected that he might now, without any 
self-conceit, at least admire the poem!—since he had 
decided that was no longer his, but another’s, he was free 
to bestow on it as much as he would of unstinting praise! 
For it was very fine,—there could be no doubt of that, 
whatever Zabastes might say to the contrary,—and it was 
not only fine, but intensely, humanly pathetic, seeming to 
strike a chord of passion such as had never before been 
sounded,—a chord to which the world would be compelled 
to listen,—yes,— compelled! thought Theos exultingly,— 
as Sah-luma drew nearer and nearer the close of his dic¬ 
tation .The deep quiet all around was so heavy as 

to be almost uncomfortable in its oppressiveness,—it 
exercised a sort of strain upon the nerves. 

Hark! what was that? Through the hot and silent 
air swept a sullen surging noise as of the angry shouting 
of a vast multitude,—then came the fast and furious 
gallop of many horses,—and again that fierce, resentful 
roar of indignation, swelling up as it seemed from 
thousands of throats. Moved, all three at once, by the 
same instinctive desire to know what was going on, Theos, 
Sah-lfima, and Zab&stes sprang from their different places 
in the room, and hurried out on the marble terrace, dash¬ 
ing aside the silken awnings as they went in order the 
better to see the open glimpses of the city thoroughfares 
that lay below. Theos, leaning far out over the western 
half of the balustrade, was able to command a distant 
view of the great Square in which the huge white granite 
Obelisk occupied so prominent a position, and, fixing his 
eyes attentively on this spot, saw that it was filled to 
overflowing with a dense mass of people, whose white- 
raimented forms, pressed together in countless numbers, 
swayed restlessly to and fro like the rising waves of a 
stormy sea. 

Lifted above this troubled throng, one tall, dark figure 
was distinctly outlined against the dazzling face of the 
Obelisk—a figure that appeared to be standing on the 
back of the colossal Lion that lay couchant beneath. And 
as Theos strained his sight to distinguish the details of 
the scene more accurately, he suddenly beheld a glittering 
regiment of mounted men in armor, charging straightly 
and with cruelly determined speed, right into the centre 
of the crowd, apparently regardless of all havoc to life 
and limb that might ensue. Involuntarily he uttered an 




ARDATH. 


297 


exclamation of horror at what seemed to him so wanton 
and brutal an act, when just then Sah-luma caught him 
eagerly by the arm,—Sah-ltima, whose soft, oval coun¬ 
tenance was brilliant with excitement, and in whose eyes 
gleamed a mingled expression of mirth and ferocity. 

“Come, come, my friend!” he said hastily—“ Yonder 
is a sight worth seeing! ’Tis the mad Khosrul who is 
thus entrenched and fortified by the mob,—as I live, that 
sweeping gallop of His Majesty’s Royal Guards is mag¬ 
nificent ! They will seize the Prophet this time without 
fail! Aye, if they slay a thousand of the populace in the 
performance of their duty! Come!—let us hasten to the 
scene of action—’twill be a struggle I would not miss for 
all the world! ” 

He sprang down the steps of the loggia, accompanied 
by Theos, who was equally excited,—when all at once 
Zabastes, thrusting out his head through a screen of vine- 
leaves, cried after them: 

“ Sah-lftma!—Most illustrious ! What of the poem ? 
It is not finished! ” 

“Ho matter!” returned Sah-luma—“’Twill be finished 
hereafter! ” 

And he hastened on, Theo treading close in his foot¬ 
steps and thinking as he went of the new enigma thus 
proposed to puzzle afresh the weary workings of his mind. 
His poem of NourhUlmci ”—or rather the poem he had 
fancied was his—had been entirely completed down to the 
last line; now Sah-lftma’s was left “ to be finished here¬ 
after” 

* Strange that he should find a pale glimmering of consola¬ 
tion in this !—a feeble hope that perhaps after all, at some 
future time, he might be able to produce a few, a very 
few lines of noble verse that should be deemed purely 
original! . . enough perchance, to endow him with a faint, 
far halo of diminished glory such as plodding students 
occasionally win, by following humbly yet ardently . . . 
even as he now followed Sah-lfima. . . in the paths of 
excellence marked out by greater men! 


298 


ARDATU. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

THE FALL OF THE OBELISK. 

Ijt less time than he could have imagined possible, he 
found himself in the densely crowded Square, buffeting 
and struggling against an angry and rebellious mob, who 
half resentful and half terrified, had evidently set them¬ 
selves to resist the determined charge made by the mounted 
soldiery into their midst. For once Sah-l&ma’s appear¬ 
ance created no diversion,—he was pushed and knocked 
about as unceremoniously as if he were the commonest 
citizen of them all,, He seemed carelessly surprised at 
this, but nevertheless took his hustling very good-humor¬ 
edly, and, keeping his shoulders well squared, forced his 
way with Theos by slow degrees through the serried 
ranks of people, many of whom, roused to a sort of frenzy 
threw themselves in front of the advancing horses of Hie 
guard, and seizing the reins held on to these like grim 
death, reckless of all danger. 

As yet no weapons were used either by the soldiers or 
the populace,—the former seemed for the present con¬ 
tented to simply ride down those who impeded their 
progress,—and that they had done so in terrible earnest 
was plainly evident from the numbers of wounded creat¬ 
ures that lay scattered about on every side in an appar¬ 
ently half-dying condition. Yet there was surely a strange 
insensibility to suffering among them all, inasmuch as in 
spite of the contention and confusion there were no violent 
snrieks of either pain or fury,—-no exclamations of rage 
or despair,—no sound whatever indeed, save a steady, 
sullen, monotonous snarl of opposition, above which the 
resonant voice of the Prophet Khosrtil rang out like a 
silver clarion. 

“ O people doomed and made desolate! ” he cried . . 
“ O nation once mighty, brought low to the dust of de¬ 
struction ! Hear me, ye strong men and fair women!— 
and you, ye poor little children who never again shall see 
the sun rise on the thousand domes of Al-Kyris ! Lift up 
the burden of bitter lamentation!—lift it up to the Heaven 
of Heavens, the Throne of the All-Seeing Glory, the 


AIWATH. 


299 


Giver oT Law, the Destroyer of Evil! Weep! . . weep 
for your sins and the sins of your sons and your daughters 
—east off the jewels of pride,—rend the fine raiment, . . 
let your tears be abundant as the rain and dew! Kneel 
down and cry aloud on the great and terrible Unknown 
God—the God ye have denied and wronged,—the Founder 
©f worlds, who doth hold in His Hand the Sun as a torch, 
and scattereth stars with the fire of His breath! Mourn 
and bend ye all beneath the iron stroke of Destiny!—for 
know ye not how fierce a thing has come upon Al-Kyris? 
- - a thing that lips cannot utter nor words define,—a 
thing more horrible than strange sounds in thick dark¬ 
ness,—more deadly than the lightning when it leaps from 
Heaven with intent to slay! O City stately beyond all 
cities ! Thy marble palaces are already ringed round with 
a river of blood!—the temples of thy knowledge wherein 
thy wise men have studied to exceed all wisdom, begin to 
totter to their fall,—thou shalt be swept away even as a 
light heap of ashes, and what shall all thy learning avail 
thee in that brief and fearful end! Hear me, O people of 
Al-Kyris !—Hear me and cease to strive among yourselves, 

„ resist not thus desperately the King’s armed min¬ 
ions, for to them I also speak and say,—Lo! the time ap¬ 
proaches when a stronger hand than that of the mighty 
iephoranim shall take me prisoner and bear me hence 
where most I long to go ! Peace, I command you! . . in 
the Name of that God whose truth I do proclaim. . . 
Peace! ” 

As he uttered the last word an instantaneous hush fell 
Upon the crowd,—every head was turned toward his grand, 
gaunt, almost spectral figure; and even the mounted 
soldiery reined up their plunging, chafing steeds and re¬ 
mained motionless as though suddenly fixed to the ground 
!by some powerful magnetic spell. Theos and Sah4tuna 
j took immediate advantage of this lull in the conflict, to 
I try and secure for themselves a better point of vantage, 
i though there was much difficulty in pressing through the 
closely packed throng, inasmuch as not a man moved to 
give them passage-room. 

Presently, however, Sah-luma managed to reach the 
^nearest one of the two great fountains, which adorned 
cither side of the Obelisk, and, springing as lightly as a 
Mrd on its marble edge, he stood erect there, nis pietur- 
mqmiwm presenting itself ’to the view like a fine status 


300 


ARDATH. 


Bet against the background of sun-tinted foaming water 
that dashed high above him and sprinkled his garments 
with drops of sparkling spray. Theos at once joined him, 
and the two friends, holding each other fast by the arm, 
gazed down on the silent, mighty multitude around them, 
—a huge concourse of the citizens of Al-Kyris, who, 
strange as this part of their behavior seemed, still paid 
no heed to the presence of their Laureate, but with pale, 
rapt faces and anxious, frightened eyes, riveted their 
attention entirely on the sombre, black-garmented Prophet 
whose thin ghostly arms, outstretched above them, ap¬ 
peared to mutely invoke in their behalf some special 
miracle of mercy. 

“ See you not ” . . whispered Sah-lfima to his compan¬ 
ion,—“ how yon aged fool wears upon his breast the Sym¬ 
bol of his own Prophecy? ’Tis the maddest freak to thus 
display his death-warrant!—Only a month ago the King 
issued a decree, warning all those whom it might concern, 
that any one of his born subjects presuming to carry the 
sign of KhosrtiPs newly invented Faith should surely 
die! And that the crazed reprobate carries it himself 
makes no exemption from the rule! ” 

Theos shuddered. Ills eyes were misty, but he could 
very well see the Emblem to which Sah-lhma alluded,—it 
was the Cross again! . . . the same sacred Prefiguremenfc 
of things “ to come” according to the perplexing explana¬ 
tion given by the Mystic Zuriel whom he had met in the 
Passage of the Tombs, though to his own mind it conveyed 
no such meaning. Wliat was it then ? . . if not a Proto¬ 
type of the future, was it a Record of the Past ? fie dared 
not pursue this question,—it seemed to send his brain 
reeling on the verge of madness! lie made no answer to 
Sah-lthna’s remark,—but fixed his gaze wistfully on the 
tall, melancholy Shape that like a black shadow darkened 
the whiteness of the Obelisk,—and his sense of hearing 
became acute almost to painfulness when once more 
Khosrdl’s deep vibrating tones peeled solemnly through 
the heavy air. 

“ God speaks to Al-Kyris! ” and as the Prophet enun¬ 
ciated these words with majestic emphas' \ a visible thrill 
ran through the hushed assemblage . . “ God saith : Get 
thee up, O thou City of Pleasure, from thy couch of 
sweet wantonness,—get thee up, gird thee with fire, and 
.flee into the desert of forgotten tiling^! For thou art be* 




801 


come a blot on the fairness of My world, and a shame to 
the brightness of My Heaven !—thy rulers are corrupt,— 
thy teachers are proud of heart and narrow in judgment, 
—thy young men and maidens go astray and follow each 
after their own vain opinions,—in thy great temples and 
holy places Falsehood abides, and Vice holds court in thy 
glorious palaces. Wherefore because thou hast neither 
sought nor served Me, and because thou hast set up gold 
as thy god, and a multitude of riches as thy chief good, 
lo! now mine eyes have grown weary of beholding thee, 
and I will descend upon thee suddenly and destroy thee, 
even as a hill of sand is destroyed by the whirlwind,— 
and thou shalt be known in the land of My creatures no 
more! Woe to thee that thou hast taken pride in thy 
wisdom and learning, for therein lies thy much wicked¬ 
ness ! If thou wert truly wise thou wouldst have found 
Me,—if thou wert nobly learned thou wouldst have un¬ 
derstood My laws,—but thou art proved altogether gross, 
foolish, and incapable,—and the studies whereof thou hast 
boasted, the writings of thy wise men, the charts of sea 
and land, the maps of thy chief astronomers, the engraved 
tablets of learning, in gold, in silver, in ivory, in stone, 
thy chronicles of battle and conquest, the documents of 
thine explorers in far countries, the engines of inline in¬ 
vention whereby thou dost press the lightning into thy 
service, and make the air respond to the messages of thy 
kings and councillors,—all these shall be thrust away into 
an everlasting silence, and no man hereafter shall be able 
to declare that such things have ever been ! ” 

Here the speaker paused,—and Tlieos, surveying the 
vast listening crowds, fancied they looked like an audience 
of moveless ghosts rather than human beings,—so still, 
so pallid, so grave were they, one and all. Khosr&l con¬ 
tinued in softer, more melancholy accents, that, while 
plaintive, were still singularly impressive. 

“Omy ill-fated, my beloved fellow-countrymen!” he 
exclaimed, extending his arms witli a vehemently pleading 
gesture as though in the excess of emotion he would have 
drawn all the people to his heart,—“ Ye unhappy 
ones? . . have I not given ye warning? Have I not 
bidden ye beware of this great evil which should come to 
pass ?—evil for which there is no remedy,—none,—neither 
in the earth, nor the sea, nor the invisible comforts of the 
air! . . for God hath spoken, and who shall contradict 


m 


AJRDATB. 


the thunder of His voice! Behold the end is at hand of 
all the pleasant things of Al-Kyris,—the feasting and the 
musical assemblies, the cymbal-symphonies and the choir- 
dances, the labors of students and the triumphs of sages,— 
all these shall seem but the mockery of madness in the 
swift-descending night of overwhelming destruction! 
Woe is me that ye would not listen when I called, but 
turned every man to his own devices and the following 
after idols ? Nay now, what will ye do in extremity ?— 
Will ye chant hymns to the Sun ? Lo, he is deaf and blind 
for all his golden glory, and is but a taper set in the 
window of the sky, to be extinguished at God’s good 
pleasure ! Will ye supplicate Nag&ya? O fools and des¬ 
perate !—how shall a brute beast answer prayer!—Vain, 
vain is all beseeching,—shut forever are the doors of 
escape,—therefore cover yourselves with the garments of 
burial,—prepare each one his grave and rich funeral 
things,—gather together the rosemary and myrrh, the 
precious ointments and essences, the strings of gold and 
the jewelled talismans whereby ye think to fight against 
corruption,—and fall down, every man in his own wrought 
holiow in the ground, face-turned to earth and die —for 
Death hath broken through the strong gates of Al-Kyris, 
and hath taken the City Magnificent captive unknowingly! 
Alas, alas ! that ye would not follow whither I led,—that 
ye would not hearken to the Vision of the Future, dimly yet 
gloriously revealed! . . the Future! . . the Future!” . . . 

lie broke off suddenly, and raising his eyes to the deep 
blue sky above him, seemed for a moment as though he 
were caught up in the cloud of some wondrous dream. 
Still the enormous throng of people stood hushed and 
motionless,—not a word, not a sound escaped them,— 
there was something positively appalling in such absolute 
immobility,—at least it appeared so to Theos, who could 
not understand this dispassionate behavior on the part 
of so large and lately excited a multitude. All at once a 
voice marvellously tender, clear, and pathetic trembled 
on the silence,—was it, could it be the voice of Khosr&l? 
Yes! but so changed, so solemn, so infinitely sweet, that 
it might have been some gentle angel speaking : 

“ Like a fountain of sweet water in the desert, or the 
rising of the moon in a gloomy midnight,” he said slowly,— 
“Even so is the hope and promise of the Supremely 
Beloved! Through the veiling darkness of the coming 


ARDATH. 


803 


ages His Light already shines upon my sonl! O blessed 
Advent! . . O happy Future! . . O days when privi¬ 
leged Humanity shall bridge by Love the gulf between 
this world and Heaven! What shall be said of Him who 
cometh to redeem us, O my foreseeing spirit I What 
shall be told concerning His most marvellous Beauty ? 
Even as a dove that for pity of its helpless younglings 
doth battle soft-breasted with a storm, even so shall He 
descend from out His glory sempiternal, and teach us 
how to conquer Sin and Death,—aye, even with the 
meekness of a little child He shall approach, and choose 
His dwelling here among us. O heavenly Child! O 
wisdom of God contained in innocence! . . . happy the 
learning that shall learn from Thee!—noble the pride 
that shall humble itself before Thy gentleness! * O 
Prince of Manhood and Divinity entwined! Thou shalt 
acquaint Thyself with human griefs, and patiently un¬ 
ravel the perplexities of human longings!—to prove Thy 
sacred sympathy with suffering, Thou shalt be content to 
suffer,—to explain the mystery of Death, Thou shalt oven 
be content to die. O people of Al-Kyris, hear ye all the 
words that tell of this Wonderful, Inestimable King of 
Peace,—mine aged eyes do see Him now, far, far off in 
the rising mist of unformed future things !—the Cross— 
the Cross, on which His Man’s pure Life dissolves itself 
in glory, stretches above me in spreading beams of 
light! . . Ah ! ’tis a glittering pathway in the skies where¬ 
on men and the angels meet and know each other ! Ho 
is the strong and perfect Spirit, that shall break loose 
from Death and declare the insignificance of the Grave,— 
He is the lingering Star in the East that shall rise and 
lighten all spiritual darkness—the unknown, unnamed 
Redeemer of the World, ... the Man-God Saviour that 
shall come f ” 

* The idea of a Saviour who should be born as Man to redeem the 
•world was prevalent among all nations and dates from the remotest 
ages. Coming down to what must be termed quite a modem period 
compared to that in which the city of Al-Kyris had its existence, we 
find that the Romans under Octavius Caesar were wont to exclaim 
at their sacred meetings, “ The times foretold by the Sybil are 
arrived ; may a new age soon restore that Saturn ? Soon may the 
child be born who shall banish the Age of Iron ?” Tacitus and Sueto¬ 
nius both mention the prophecies “ in the sacred books of the priests” 
which declare that the “ East shall be in commotion,” and that “men 
from Judea ” shall subject “ everything to their dominion.” 


804 


AIIDATH. 


“ Shall come ? ” cried Theos, suddenly roused to the 
utmost pitch of frenzied excitement, and pronouncing 
each word with loud and involuntary vehemence . . 
“ Nay ! . . for lie has come! lie died for us, and rose 
again from the dead more than eighteen hundred years 
ago/” 

***** 

A frightful silence followed,—a breathless cessation 
of even the faintest quiver of sound. The mighty mass 
of people, apparently moved by one accord, turned with 
swift, stealthy noiselessness toward the audacious speaker, 
. . . thousands of glittering eyes were fixed upon him 
in solemnly inquiring wonderment, while he himself, now 
altogether dismayed at the effect of his own rash ut¬ 
terance, thought he had never experienced a more awful 
moment! For it was as though all the skeletons he had 
lately seen in the Passage of the Tombs had suddenly 
clothed themselves with spectral flesh and hair and'the 
shadowy garments of men, and had advanced into broad 
daylight to surround him in their terrible lifeless ranks, 
and wrench from him the secret of an after-existence con¬ 
cerning which they were ignorant! 

How ghostly and drear seemed that dense crowd in this 
new light of his delirious fancy! A clammy dew broke 
out on his forehead,—he saw the blue skies, the huge 
buildings in the Square, the Obelisk, the fountains, the 
trees, all whirling round him in a wild dance of the diz¬ 
ziest distraction, . . when Sah-lftma’s rich voice close to 
his ear recalled his wandering senses: 

“ Why, man, art thou drunk or mad?” and the Lau¬ 
reate’s face expressed a kind of sarcastic astonishment,— 
“ What a fool thou hast made of thyself, good comrade! 
. . By my soul, how shall thy condition be explained to 
these open-mouthed starers below! See how they gape 
% upon thee! . . thou art most assuredly a noticeable spec¬ 
tacle ! . . and yon maniac Prophet doth evidently judge 
thee as one of his craft, a fellow professional howler of 
marvels, else he would scarcely deign to fix his eyes so 
obstinately on thy countenance l Nay, verily thou dost 
outrival him in the strangeness of thy language! . . 
What moved thee to such frenzied utterance? Surely 
thou hast a stroke of the sun l —thy words were most ab- 


ARDATH. 305 

eolutely devoid of reason! . . as senseless as the jabber 
of an idiot to his own shadow on the wall! ” 

Theos was mute,—he had no defense to offer. The 
crowd still stared upon him,—and his heart beat fast with 
a mingled sense of fear and pride—fear of his present 
surroundings,—pride that he had spoken out his convic¬ 
tion boldly, reckless of all consequences. And this pride 
was a most curious thing to analyze, because ft did not 
so much consist in the fact of his having openly confessed 
his inward thought, as that he felt he had gained some 
special victory in thus acknowledging his belief in the pos¬ 
itive existence of the “ Saviour ” who formed the subject 
of Khosrftl’s prophecy. Full of a singular sort of self-con¬ 
gratulation which yet had nothing to do with selfishness, 
he became so absorbed in his own reflections that he 
started like a man brusquely aroused from sleep when 
the Prophet’s strong grave voice apostrophized him 
personally over the heads of the throng : 

“Who and what art thou, that dost speak of the 
Future as though it were the Past ? Hast thou held con¬ 
verse with the Angels, and is Past and Future one with 
thee in the dream of the departing Present? Answer 
me, thou stranger to the city of Al-Kyris! . . Has God 
taught thee the way to Everlasting Life?” 

Again that awful silence made itself felt like a deadly 
chill on the sunlit air,—the quiet, patient crowds seemed 
waiting in hushed suspense for. some reply which should 
be as a flash of spiritual enlightenment to leap from one 
to the other with kindling heat and radiance, and vivify 
them all into a new and happier existence. But now, 
when Theos most strongly desired to speak, he remained 
dumb as stone! . . vainly he struggled against and con¬ 
tended with the invisible, mysterious, and relentless des¬ 
potism that smote him on the mouth as it were, and de¬ 
prived him of all power of utterance, ... his tongue was 
stiff and frozen, . . his very lips were sealed! Trem¬ 
bling violently, he gazed beseechingly at Sah-lflma, who 
held his arm in a firm and friendly grasp, and who, ap¬ 
parently quickly perceiving that he was distressed and 
embarrassed, undertook himself to furnish forth what 
he evidently considered a fitting response to KhosrftFs 
adjuration. 

j “ Most venerable Seer! ,J) he cried mockingly, his bright 
lace radiant with mirth and his dark eyes flashing o, 
20 


306 


ATtDATH. 


careless contempt as he spoke—“ Thou art as short¬ 
sighted as thine own auguries if thou canst not at once 
comprehend the drift of my friend’s humor! lie hath 
caught the infection of thy fanatic eloquence, and, .like 
thee, knows naught of what he says: moreover he hath 
good wine and sunlight mingled in his blood, whereby 
he hath been doubtless moved to play a jest upon thee, 
I pray thee heed him not 1 He is as free to declare thy 
Prophecy is of the Past, as thou art to insist on its being 
of the Future ,—in both ways ’tis a most foolish fallacy! 
Nevertheless, continue thy entertaining discourse, S*r 
Graybeard! . and if thou must needs address thyself 
to any one soul in particular, why let it be me,—for 
though, thanks to mine ov/n excellent good sense, I have 
no faith in angels nor crosses, nor everlasting life, nor 
any of the strange riddles wherewith thou seekest to per- 

E lex and bewilder the brains of the ignorant, still am I 
aureate of the realm, and ready to hold argument with 
thee,—yea!—until such time as these dumfounded sol¬ 
diers and citizens of Al-Kyris shall remember their duty 
sufficiently to seize and take thee captive in the King’s 
great name! ” 

As he ceased a deep sigh ran, like the 'first sound of a 
rising wind among trees, through the heretofore motion¬ 
less multitude,—a faint, dawning, yet doubtful smile re¬ 
flected itself on their faces,—ancl the old familiar shout 
broke feebly from their lips: 

“ Hail, Sah-lhma! Let us hear Sak-lhma ! ” 

Sah-lftma looked down upon them all in airy derision. 
“ O fickle, terror-stricken fools! ” he exclaimed—“ O 
thankless and disloyal people ! What!—ye will see me 
now ? . . ye will hear me ? . . Aye! but who shall answer 
for your obedience to my words ! Nay, is it possible that 
I, your country’s chosen Chief Minstrel, should have 
stood so long among ye disregarded! How comes it 
your dull eyes and ears were fixed so fast upon yon dotard 
miscreant whose days are numbered? Methought t’was 
but Sah-lflma’s voice that could persuade ye to assemble 
thus in such locust-like swarms . . since when have the 
Poet and the People of Al-Kyris ceased to be as one ? ” 

A vague, muttering sound answered him, whether of 
shame or dissatisfaction it was difficult to tell. Khosrfd’s 
vibrating accent struck sharply across that muffled mur¬ 
mur. 


ARDATB. 


307 


“ The Poet and the People of Al-Kyris are further 
asunder than light and darkness ! ” he cried vehemently 
—“ For the Poet has been false to his high vocation, and 
the People trust in him no more! ” 

There was an instant’s hush, .... a hush as it seemed 
of grieved acquiescence on the part of the populace,—and 
during that brief pause Theos’s heart gave a fierce bound 
against his ribs as though some one had suddenly shot at 
him with a poisoned arrow. He glanced quickly at Sah- 
lftma,—but Sah-lftma stood calmly unmoved, his hand¬ 
some head thrown back, a cynical smile on his lips and 
his eyes darker than ever with an intensity of unutterable 
scorn. 

“ Sah-lhma ! . . Sah-lftma ! ” and the piercing, re¬ 
proachful voice of the Prophet penetrated every part of 
the spacious square like a sonorous bell ringing over a 
still landscape: “O divine Spirit of Song pent up in gross 
clay, was ever mortal more gifted than thou! In thee 
was kindled the white fire of Heaven,—to thee were con¬ 
fided the memories of vanished worlds, . . for thee God 
bade His Nature wear a thousand shapes of varied mean¬ 
ing,—the sun, the moon, the stars were appointed as thy 
servants,—for thou wert bom Poet, the mystically chosen 
Teacher and Consoler of Mankind 1 What hast thou 
done, Sah-lfima, . . what hast thou done with the treas¬ 
ures bestowed upon thee by the all-endowing Angels ? . . 
How hast thou used the talisman of thy genius ? To com¬ 
fort the afflicted ? . . to dethrone and destroy the oppress¬ 
or ? . . to uphold the cause of Justice ? . . to rouse the 
noblest instincts of thy race ? . . to elevate and purify 
the world ? . . Alas, alas!—thou hast made Thyself the 
idol of thy muse, and thou being but perishable, thy fame 
shall perish with thee! Thou hast drowsed away thy 
manhood in the lap of vice, . . thou hast slept and 
dreamed when thou should have been awake and vig- i 
ilant! Not I, but thou shouldst have warned the people 1 
of their coming doom \ . not I, but thou shouldst 

have marked the threatening signs of the pregnant hour, 
—not I, but thou shouldst have perceived the first fault 
glimmer of God’s future scheme of glad salvation,—not I, 
but thou shouldst have taught and pleaded, and swayed 
by thy matchless sceptre of sweet song, the passions of 
thy countrymen! Hadst thou been true to that first 
flame of Thought within thee, O Sah-lftma, how thy glory 



808 


ARDATH. 


would have dwarfed the power of kings! Empires might 
have fallen, cities decayed, and nations been absorbed in 
ruin,—and yet thy clear-convincing voice, rendered im¬ 
perishable by its faithfulness should have sounded forth 
in triumph above the foundering wrecks of Time! O 
Poet unworthy of thy calling! . . How thou hast wan¬ 
toned with the sacred Muse! . . how thou hast led her 
stainless feet into the mire of sensual hypocrisies, and 
decked her with the trumpery gew-gaws of a meaningless 
fair speech !—How thou hast caught her by the virginal 
hair and made her chastity the screen for all thine owm 
licentiousness! . . Thou shouldst have humbly sought 
her benediction,—thou shouldst have handled her with 
gentle reverence and patient ardor,—from her wise lips 
thou shouldst have learned how best to practice those 
virtues whose praise thou didst evasively proclaim, . . . 
thou shouldst have shrined her, throned her, worshiped 
her, and served her, . . yea! . even as a sinful man may 
serve an Angel who loves him! ” 

Ah, what a strange, cold thrill ran through Theos as he 
heard these last words ! “ As a sinful man may serve an 

Angel who loves him! ” How happy the man thus 
loved! . . . how fortunate the sinner thus permitted to 
serve ! . . Who was he? . . Could there be any one so 
marvellously privileged ? He wondered dimly,—and a 
dull, aching pain throbbed heavily in his brows. It was 
a very singular thing too, that he should find himself 
strongly and personally affected by Khosrfil’s address to 
Sah-lilma, yet such was the case, ... so much so, indeed, 
that he accepted all the Prophet’s reproaches as though 
they applied solely to his own past life! He could not 
understand his emotion, . . . nevertheless he kept on 
dreamily regretting that things ivere as Khosrftl had said, 
. . that he had not fulfilled his vocation,—and that he had 
neither been humble enough nor devout enough nor un¬ 
selfish enough to deserve the high and imperial name of 
Poet. 

Round and round like a flying mote this troublesome 
idea circled in his brain, ... he must do better in future, 
he resolved, supposing that any future remained to him 
in which to work, . . He must redeem the past / . 

Here he roused his mental faculties with a start and 
forced himself to realize that it was Sah-Mma to whom the 
Prophet spoke,.. Sah-lfima, only Sah-lfima,—not himself 2 


ARDATH. 


309 

Then straightway he became indignant on his friend’s 
behalf,—why should Sah-Mma be blamed ? . . Sah-ltima 
was a glorious poet!—a master-singer of singers ! . . his 
fame must and should endure forever ! . . . . Thus think¬ 
ing, he regained his composure by degrees, and strove to 
assume the same air of easy indifference as that exhibited 
by his companion, when again Khosrhl’s declamatory 
tones thundered forth with an absoluteness of emphasis 
that was both startling and convincing: 

“ Hear me, Sail-luma, Chief Minstrel of Al-Kyris!—hear 
me, thou who hast willfully wasted the golden moments 
of never-returning time! Thou art marked out for 
Death /—death sudden and fierce as the leap of the desert 
panther on its prey! . death that shall come to thee 
through the traitorous speech of the evil woman whose 
beauty has sapped thy strength and rendered thy glory 
inglorious! . death that for thee, alas ! shall be mournful 
and utter oblivion! Naught shall it avail to thee that thy 
musical weaving of words hath been graven seven times 
over, on tablets of stone and agate and ivory, of gold and 
white silex and porphyry, and the unbreakable rose-ada¬ 
mant,—none of these shall suffice to keep thy name in. 
remembrance,—for what cannot be broken shall be melted 
with flame, and what cannot be erased shall be buried 
miles deep in the bosom of earth, whence it never again 
shall be lifted into the light of day! Aye! thou shalt be 
forgotten /—forgotten as though thou liadst never sung,—. 
other poets shall chant in the world, yet maybe none so 
well as thou!—other laurel and myrtle wreaths shall be 
given by countries and kings to bards unworthy,- of whom 
none perchance shall have thy sweetness! . . . but thou, 
—thou the most grandly gifted, gift-squandering Poet the 
world has ever known, shalt be cast among the dust of 
unremembered nothings, and the name of Sah-hkna shall 
carry no meaning to any man born in the coming here¬ 
after! For thou hast cherished within Thyself the 
poison that withers thee, . . . the deadly poison of Doubt, 
the Denial of God’s existence, . . the accursed blankness 
of Disbelief in the things of the Life Eternal! . . where¬ 
fore, thy spirit is that of one lost and rebellious,—whose 
best works are futile,—whose days are void of example,— 
and whose carelessly grasped torch of song shall be 
suddenly snatched from thy hand and extinguished in 
darkness 1 God pardon thee, dying Poet! . . God give 



ABDATU. 


310 

thy parting soul a chance of penance and of sweet redemp¬ 
tion ! . . God comfort thee in that drear Land of Shadow 
whither thou art bound! . God bring thee forth again 
from Chaos to a nobler Future! . . Sin-burdened as thou 
art, my blessing follows thee in thy last agony ! Sah- 
lftma! . . fallen Angel , self-exiled from thy peers! . . 
farewell!” 

The effect of these strange words was so extraordinarily 
impressive, that for one instant the astonished and 
evidently affrighted crowds pressed round Sah-lfima 
eagerly, staring St him in morbid fear and wonder, as 
though they expected him to drop dead before them in 
immediate fulfillment of the Prophet’s solemn valediction. 
Theos, oppressed by an inward sickening sense, of terror, 
also regarded him with close and anxious solicitude, but 
was almost reassured at the first glance. 

Never was a greater opposition offered to Khosrfil’s 
gloomy prognostications, than that contained in the hand¬ 
some Laureate’s aspect at that moment,—his supple, 
graceful figure alert with life, . . his glowing face 
flushed by the sun, and touched with that faintly amused 
look of serene scorn, . . his glorious eyes, brilliant as 
jewels under their drooping amorous lids, and the regal 
poise of his splendid shoulders and throat, as he lifted his 
head a little more haughtily than usual, and glanced in¬ 
differently down from his foothold on the edge of the 
fountain at the upturned, questioning faces of the throng, 
. . all even to the careless balance and ease of his attitude, 
betokened his perfect condition of health, and the entire 
satisfaction he had in the consciousness of his own 
strength and beauty. 

He seemed about to speak, and raised hi3 hand with 
the graceful yet commanding gesture or one accustomed 
to the art of elegant rhetoric, . . . when suddenly his ex¬ 
pression changed, . . shrugging his shoulders lightly as 
who should say . . “Here comes the conclusion of the 
matter,—no time for further argument”—he silently 
pointed across the Square, while a smile dazzling yet cruel 
played on his delicately parted lips, . . a smile, the 
covert meaning of which was soon explained. For all at 
once a brazen roar of trumpets split the silence into torn 
and discordant echoes,—the crowd turned swiftly, and 
f eeing who it was that approached, rushed hither 
thfthe* in the tdlfet ermfuislom making as though they 



ARDATB . 


m 

would have fled, . . and in less than a minute, a gleam< 
Lag cohort of mounted and armed spearmen galloped 
furiously into the thick of the mZUe. 

Following these came a superb car drawn by six jet* 
black horses that plunged and pranced through the mul¬ 
titude with no more heed than if these groups of living 
beings had been mere sheafs of corn, . . a car flashing 
from end to end with gold and precious stones, in which 
towered the erect, massive form of Zephor&nim, the King. 
His dark face was ablaze with wrath, . . . tightly grasp¬ 
ing the reins of his reckless steeds, he drew him^Lf 
haughtily upright and turned his rolling, fierce black eyes 
indignantly from side to side on the scared people, as he 
drove through their retreating ranks, smiting down and 
mangling with the sharp spikes of his tall chariot-wheels 
men, women, and children without care or remorse, till 
he forced his terrible passage straight to the foot of the 
Obelisk. There he came to an abrupt standstill, and, lift¬ 
ing high his strong hand and brawny arm glittering with 
jewels, he cried: 

“ Soldiers! Seize yon traitorous rebel! Ten thousand 
pieces of gold for the capture of Khosrfil I ” 

There was an instant of hesitation, . . . not one of the 
populace stirred to obey the order. Then suddenly, as 
though released by their monarch’s command from some 
mesmeric spell, the before inactive mounted guards 
started into action, cantered sharply forward and 
surrounded the Obelisk, while the armed spearsmen 
closed together and made a swift advance upon the ven¬ 
erable figure that stood alone and defenseless, tran¬ 
quilly awaiting their approach. But there was evidently 
some unknown and mysterious force pent up within the 
Prophet’s feeble frame, for when the soldiers were just 
about an arm’s length from him, they seemed all at once 
troubled and irresolute, and turned their looks away, as 
though fearing to gaze too steadfastly upon that grand, 
thought-furrowed countenance in which the eyes, made 
young by inward fervor, blazed forth with unearthly lus¬ 
tre beneath a silvery halo of tossed white hair. Zephor- 
&nim perceived this touch of indecision on the part of his 
men, and his black brows contracted in an ominous 
frown. 

“Halt!” he shouted fiercely, apparently to make it' 
seem to the mob that the pause in the action of tLse 


312 


ARBATU. 


soldiery was in compliance with his own behest, . . 
44 Halt! . . Bind him, and bring him hither, . . I myself 
will slay him! ” 

44 Halt! ” echoed a voice, discordantly sharp and wild . . 
44 Halt thou also, great Zephoranim ! for Death bars thy 
further progress! ” 

And Khosrfil, manifestly possessed by some superhu¬ 
man access of frenzy, leaped from his position on the back 
of the stone Lion, and slipping agilely through the ranks 
of the startled spearmen and guards, who were all un¬ 
prepared for the suddenness and rapidity of his move¬ 
ments, he sprang boldly on the edge of the Royal chariot, 
and there clung to the jewelled wheel, looking like a 
gaunt aerial spectre, an ambassador of coming ruin. The 
King, speechless with amazement and fury, dragged at 
his huge sword till he wrenched it out of its sheath, . . 
raising it, he whirled it round his head so that it gave a 
murderous hiss in the air, . . . and yet . . was his strong 
arm paralyzed that he forbore to strike ! 

44 Zephoranim! ” Khosrhl, in terms that were pierc¬ 
ing and dolorous as the whistling of the wind among 
hollow reeds,— 44 Zephoranim, thou shalt die to-uiglit ! art 
thou ready f Art thou ready, proud King ? . ready to be 
made less than the lowest of the low ? Hush! . . Hush! ” 
and his aged face took upon itself a ghastly greenish pal¬ 
lor— 44 Hear you not the muttering of the thunder under¬ 
ground? There are strange powers at work! . . . . 
powers of the undug earth and unfathomed sea! . . . . 
hark how they tear at the stately foundations of Al-Kyris! 

. . Flame! flame ! it is already kindled!—it shall enwrap 
thee with more closeness than thy coronation robe, O 
mighty Sovereign ! . . with more gloating fondness than the 
serpent-twining arms of thy beloved! Listen, Zephoranim, 
listen! ” 

Here he stretched out his skinny hand and pointed up¬ 
wards,—his eyes grew fixed and glassy,—his throat rat¬ 
tled convulsively. At that moment the monarch, recover¬ 
ing his self-possession, once more lifted his sword with 
direct and deadly aim, but the Prophet, uttering a wild 
shriek, caught at his descending wrist and gripped it 
fast. 

44 See . . See! ” he exclaimed . . 44 Put up thy weapon! 
.... Thou shalt never need it where thou art summoned! 

. Lo! how yon blood-red letters blaze against the blue 





ARDATH. 


313 


of heaven! . . There ! . . there it comes!—Read . . read! 
’tis written plain . . ‘ Al-Kyris shall fall, and the 
King shall die ! ’ . . Hist . . . hist! . . . Dumb oracles 
speak and dead voices find tongue! . . hark how they 
chant together the old forgotten warning; 

4 When the High Priestess 
Is the King’s mistress 
Then fall Al-Kyris!’ 

Fall Al-Kyris! . . Aye! . . the City of a thousand palaces 
shall fall to-night! . . To-night! ... O night of desper¬ 
ate horror! . . and thou, O King, shalt die ! ” 

And as he shrilled the last word on the air with terrific 
emphasis, he threw up his arms like a man suddenly shot, 
and reeling backward fell heavily on the ground,— a 
corpse. 

A great cry went up from the crowd, . . the King leaned 
eagerly out of his car. 

“ Is the fool dead, or feigning death ? ” he demanded, 
addressing one of a group of soldiers standing near. 

The officer stooped and felt the motionless body. 

“ O great King, live forever! He is dead! ” 

Zephor&nim hesitated. Cruelty and clemency strug¬ 
gled for the mastery in the varying expression of his 
frowning face, but cruelty conquered. Grasping his 
sword firmly, he bent still further forward out of his 
chariot, and with one swift, keen stroke, severed the life¬ 
less Prophet’s head from its trunk, and taking it up on 
the point of his weapon, showed it to the multitude. A 
smothered, shuddering sigh that was half a groan rippled 
through the dense throng—a sound that evidently added 
fresh irritation to the already heated temper of the 
haughty sovereign. With a savage laugh, he tossed his 
piteous trophy on the pavement, where it lay in a pool of 
its own blfcod, the white hair about it stained ruddily, and 
the still open eyes upturned as though in dumb appeal to 
heaven. Then, without deigning to utter another word, 
or to bestow another look upon the surrounding crowd of 
his disconcerted subjects, he gathered up his coursers’ 
reins and prepared to depart. 

Just then the sun went behind a cloud, and only a side- 
beam of radiance shot forth, pouring itself straight down 
on the royally attired figure of the monarch and the head¬ 
less body of Khosrfil, and at the same time bringing into 


314 


A RDA TH. 


sudden and prominent relief the silver Cross that glit¬ 
tered on the breast of the bleeding corpse, and that seemed 
to mysteriously offer itself as the Key to some unsolved 
Enigma. As if drawn by one strangely mutual attrac¬ 
tion, all eyes, even those of Zephor&nim himself, turned in¬ 
stinctively toward the flashing Emblem, which appeared 
to burn like living fire on that perished mass of stiffening 
clay, .. and there was a brief silence,—a pause, during 
which Theos, who had watched everything with curiously 
calm interest, such as may be felt by a spectator watching 
the progress of a finely acted tragedy, became conscious 
of the same singular sensation he had already several 
times experienced,—namely, That he had witnessed the 
whole of this scene before! 

He remembered it quite well,—particularly that appar¬ 
ently trifling incident of the sunlight happening to shine 
so brilliantly on the dead man and his cross while the 
rest of the vast assemblage were in comparative shadow. 
It was very odd! .. his memory was like a wonderful 
art-gallery in which some pictures were fresh of tint, 
while others were dim and faded, . . but this special 
“ tableau ” in the Square of Al-Kyris was very distinctly 
painted in brilliant and vivid colors on the sombre back¬ 
ground of his past recollections, and he found the circum¬ 
stance so remarkable that he was on the point of saying 
something to Sah-lftma about it,—when the sun came out 
again in full splendor, and Zephoranim’s spirited steeds 
started forward at a canter. 

The King, controlling them easily with one hand, ex¬ 
tended the other majestically by way of formal salutation 
to his people,.. his tall, muscular form was displayed to 
the best advantage,—the narrow jewelled fillet that bound 
his rough dark locks emitted a myriad scintillations of 
light, . . his close-fitting coat-of-mail, woven from thou¬ 
sands of small links of gold, set off his massive chest and 
shoulders to perfection,—and as he moved along royally 
in his sumptuous car, the effect of his striking presence 
was such, that a complete change took place in the before 
sullen humor of the populace. For seeing him thus alive 
and well in direct opposition to Khosrfd’s ominous pre¬ 
diction,—even as Sali-luma also stood unharmed in spite 
of his having been apostrophized as a “ dying ” Poet,— 
the mob, always fickle and always dazzled by outward 
show, suddenly set up a deafening roar of cheering. Tbs 


ART) ATS. 


315 

'pallid hue of terror vanished from faces that had but 
lately looked spectrally thin with speechless dread, and 
crowds of servile petitioners and place-hunters began to 
press eagerly rotted their monarch’s chariot, . . . when all 
at once a woman in the throng gave a wild scream and 
rushed away shrieking “ The Obelisk / . . . the Obelisk ! ” 

Every eye was instantly turned toward the stately 
pillar of white granite that sparkled in the sunlight like 

an immense carven jewel,.great Heaven! . . It 

was tottering to and fro like the unsteadied mast of a 
ship at sea! . . . One look sufficed,—and a frightful 
panic ensued—a horrible, brutish stampede of creatures 
without faith in anything human or divine save their 
own wretched personalities,—the King, infected by the 
general scare, urged his horses into furious gallop, and 
dashed through the cursing, swearing, howling throng 
like an embodied whirlwind,—and for a few seconds 
nothing seemed distinctly visible but a surging mass of 
infuriated humanity, fighting with itself for life. 

Theos alone remained singularly calm,—his sole con¬ 
sideration was for his friend Sah-lfima, whom he entwined 
with one arm as he sprang down from the position they 
had hitherto occupied on the brink of the fountain, and 
made straight for the nearest of the six broad avenues 
that opened directly into the Square. Sali-lftma looked 
pale, but was apparently unafraid,—he said nothing, and 
passively allowed himself to be piloted by Theos through 
the madly raging multitude, which, oddly enough, parted 
before them like mist before the wind, so that in a 
magically short interval they successfully reached a place 
of safety. 

And they reached it not a moment too soon. For the 
Obelisk was now plainly to be seen lurching forward at 
an angle of several degrees, . . strange muffled, roaring 
sounds were heard at its base, as though demons were 
digging up its foundations, . . then, seemingly shaken by 
underground tremors, it began to oscillate violently,—a 
terrific explosion was heard as of the bursting of a giant 
bomb,—and immediately afterward the majestic mono¬ 
lith toppled over and fell!—with the crash of a colossal 
cannonade that sent its thunderous reverberations through 
and through the length and breadth of the city ! Hun¬ 
dreds of persons were killed and wounded,—many of the 
mounted guards and spearmen, who were striving to 



316 


AHDATU. 


force a way of escape through the crowd, were struck 
down and crushed pell-mell with their horses as they 
rode,—the desperate people trampled each other to death 
in their frenzied efforts to reach the nearest outlet to the 
river embankment, . . but when once the Obelisk had 
actually fallen, all this turmoil was for an instant checked, 
and the gasping, torn, and bleeding survivors of the 
struggle stopped, as it were to take breath, and stared in 
blank dismay upon the strange ruin before them. 

Theos, still holding Sah-lftma by the arm, with the pro¬ 
tecting fondness of an elder brother guarding a younger, 
gazed also at the scene with quiet, sorrowfully wondering 
eyes. For it meant something to him he was sure, 
because it was so familiar,—yet he found it impossible to 
grasp the comprehension of that meaning! It was a 
singular spectacle enough; the lofty four-sided white 
pillar, that had so lately been a monumental glory of Al- 
Kyris, had split itself with the violence of its fall into 
two huge desolate-looking fragments, which now lay one 
on each side of the square, as though flung thither by a 
Titan’s hand,—the great lion had been hurled from its 
position and overturned like a toy, while the shield it had 
supported between its paws had entirely disappeared in 
minutely scattered atoms, . . the fountains had altogether 
ceased playing. Now and then a thin, vaporous stream 
of smoke appeared to issue between the crannies of the 
pavement,—otherwise there was no visible sign of the 
mysterious force that had wrought so swift and sudden a 
work of destruction,—the sun shone brilliantly, and over 
all the havoc beamed the placid brightness of a cloudless 
summer sky! 

The most prominent object of all amid the general 
devastation, and the one that fascinated Theos more than 
the view of the destroyed monolith and the debased Lion, 
was the uninjured head of the Prophet Khosrhl. There 
it lay, exactly between the sundered halves of the 
Obelisk, . . pale rays of light glimmered on its blood¬ 
stained silvery hair and open glazed eyes,—a solemn 
smile seemed graven on its waxen-pallid features. And 
at a little distance off, on the breast of the black-robed 
headless corpse that remained totally uncrushed in an 
open space by itself, among the surrounding heaps of 
slain and wounded, glistened the Cross like a fiery gem,.. 
an all-significaut talisittau that, as he beheld it, filled 



ARDATH. 


317 


Theos’s heart with a feverish craving,—an inexplicable 
desire mingled with remorse far greater than any fear l 
Instinctively he drew Sah-l&ma away .... away ! . . 
still keeping his wistful gaze fixed on that uncompre¬ 
hended, yet soul-recognized Symbol, till gradually the 
drooping branches of trees interrupted and shadowed the 
vista, and, as he moved further and further backward, 
closed their soft network of green foliage like the closing 
curtain on the strange but awfully remembered scene, 
shutting it out from his bewildered sight . . forever! 


CHAPTER XXV. 

A GOLDEN - TRESS. 

Once clear of the Square the two friends apparently 
became mutually conscious of the peril they had just 
escaped,.. and coming to a sudden standstill they looked 
at each other in blank, stupefied silence. Crowds of people 
streamed past them, wandering hither and thither in con¬ 
fused, cloudy masses,—some with groans and dire lamen¬ 
tations bearing away their dead and wounded,—others 
rushing frantically about, beating their breasts, tearing 
their hair, calling on the gods and lamenting Khosrftl, 
w’hile not a few muttered curses on the King. And ever 
and anon the name of “ Lysia,” coupled with heavy exe¬ 
crations, was hissed from mouth to mouth, which Tlieos, 
overhearing, began to foresee might serve as a likely cause 
for Sah-lftma’s taking offence and possibly resenting in 
his own person this public disparagement of the woman 
he loved,—therefore, without more ado he roused himself 
from his momentarily dazed condition, and urged his com¬ 
rade on at a quick pace toward the safe shelter of his own 
palace, whereat any rate he could be kept out of the reach 
of immediate harm. 

The twain walked side by side, exchanging scarcely a 
word,—Sah-lftma seemed in a manner stunned by the 
violence of the late catastrophe, and Tlieos was too busy 
with bis own thoughts to speak. On their way they were 
overtaken by the King’s chariot,—it flew by with a glit¬ 
tering whirl and clatter, amid sweeping clouds of dust, 
through which the dark face of Zephor&niin loomed out 


318 


ABB ATE. 


upon them like an almost palpable shadow. As it van* 
ished Sah-lfuna stopped short, and stared at his companion 
in utter amazement. 

“ By my soul! ” he exclaimed indignantly . . “ The 
•whole world must be going mad! ’Tis the first time in 
all my days of Laureateship that Zephoranim hath failed 
to reverently salute me as he passed! ” 

And he looked far more perturbed than when the fall¬ 
ing Obelisk had threatened him with imminent destruc¬ 
tion. 

Theos caught his arm with a quiok movoment of vexed 
impatience. 

“ Tush, man, no matter! ” he said hastily—“What are 
Kings to thee? . . thou who art an Emperor of Song? 
These little potentates that wield earth’s sceptres are a9 
fickle in their moods as the very mob they are supposed 
to govern, . . moreover, thou knowest Zephoranim hath 
had enough to-day to startle him out of all accustomed 
rules of courtesy. Be assured of it, his mind is like a 
ship at sea, storm-tossed and at the mercy of the winds ? 
—thou canst not surely blame him, that for once after so 
strange a turbulence, and unwonted a disaster, he hath 
no eyes for thee whose sole sweet mission is to minister 
to pleasure.” 

“ To minister to pleasure! ” . . echoed Sah-lUma petu¬ 
lantly .. “Nay, have I done nothing more than this? Art 
thou already grown so disloyal a friend that thou wilt 
half repeat the jargon of yon dead fanatic Khosrfil who 
dared to tell me I had served my Art unfittingly ? Have 
I not ministered to grief as well as joy ? To hours of pain 
and bitterness, as well as to long days of ease and amo¬ 
rous dreaming ? .. Have I not.. ” here he paused and a 
warm flush crept through the olive pallor of his skin,— 
his eyes grew’ plaintive and wistful and he threw one arm 
round Theos’s neck as he continued: “ No! .. after all ’tis 
vain to deny it... I have hated grief,—I have loathed the 
very suggestion of care,—I have thrust sorrow out of my 
sight as a thing vile and unwelcome,—and I have chosen 
to sing to the world of rapture more than pain,—inasmuch 
as methinks Humanity suffers enough, without having 
its cureless anguish set to the music of a poet’s rhythm 
to incessantly haunt and torture its already breaking 
Heart.” 



rather to soothe and tranquillize murmured 


ARDATB , 


319 


Theos, more to himself than to his friend—“For sup¬ 
pressed sorrow is hardest to endure, and when grief once 
finds apt utterance ’tis already half consoled! So should 
the world’s great singers tenderly proclaim the world’s 
most speechless miseries, and who knows but vexed 
Creation being thus relieved of pent-up woe may not take 
new heart of grace and comfort ? ” 

The words were spoken in a soft sotto-voce , and Sah- 
lftma seemed not to hear. He leaned, however, very con¬ 
fidingly and affectionately against Theos’s shoulder as 
he walked along, and appeared to have speedily forgotten 
his annoyance at the recent slighting conduct of the King. 

“ I marvel at the downfall of the Obelisk! ” he said 
presently. .. “ ’Twas rooted full ten feet deep in solid 
earth, . . maybe the foundations were ill-fitted,—never¬ 
theless, if history speaks truly, it hath stood unshaken 
for two thousand years! Strange that it should be now 
hurled forth thus desperately! . . I would I knew the 
hidden cause! Many, alas! nave met their death to¬ 
day, . . pushed out of life in haste, . . all unprepared .. 
One wonders where such souls have fled! Something 
there is that troubles me, . . methinks I am more than 
half disposed to leave Al-Kyris for a time, and wander 
forth into a world of unknown things-” 

“ With me 1 ” cried Tlieos impetuously—“ Come with 
me, Sah-lhma! . . Come now, this very day! I too have 
been warned of evil . . evil undeclared, yet close at hand, 
. . let us escape from danger while time remains! . . . 
Let us depart! ” 

“ Whither should we go ? ” . . . and Sah-lhma, pausing 
in his walk, fixed his large, soft eyes full on his companion 
as he put the question. 

Theos was mute. Covered with confusion, he asked 
himself the same thing. “ Whither should we go ? ” He 
had no knowledge or the country that lay outside Al- 
Kyris, . . he had no distinct remembrance of any other 
place than this in which he was. All his past existence 
was as blotted and blurred as a child’s spoiled and dis¬ 
carded copybook, . . . true, he retained two names in his 
thoughts,—namely “ Ardath ” and “ The Pass of Panel ,” 
but he was hopelessly ignorant as to what these meant or 
how he had become connected with them! He was 
roused from his distressful cogitation by Sah-lftma’s voice 
speaking again half gayly, half sadly: 


320 


ABLATE. 


“ Nay, nay, my friend! . we cannot leave the City, we> 
two alone and unguided, for beyond the gates is the desert 
wide and bare, with scarce a spring of cool water in many 
weary miles,—and beyond the desert is a forest, gloomy 
and tiger haunted, wherein the footsteps of man have 
seldom penetrated. To travel thus far we should need 
much preparation, . . many servants, many beasts of 
burden, and many months’ provision . . moreover, ’tis a 
foolish fancy crossed my mind at best,—for what should I, 
the Laureate of Al-Kyris, do in other lands? Besides, my 
departure would indeed be the desolation of the city,—well 
may Al-Kyris fall when Sah-lhma no longer abides with¬ 
in it! Seawards the way lies open,—maybe, in days to 
come, we twain may take ship and sail hence for a brief 
sojourn to those distant western shores, whence thou, 
though thou sayest naught of them, must assuredly have 
come; I have often dreamed idly of a gray coast washed 
with dull rain and swathed in sweeping mists, where ever 
and anon the sun shines through,—a country cheerless, 
where a poet’s fame like mine might ring the darkness of 
the skies with light, and stir the sleepy silence into 
song! ” 

Still Theos said nothing,—there were hot tears in his 
throat that choked his utterance. He gazed up at the 
glowing sky above him,—it was a burning vault of cloud¬ 
less blue in which the sun glared forth witheringly like a 
scorching mass of flame, ... Oh for the freshness of a 
“ gray coast washed with dull rain and swathed in sweeping 
mists ”... such as Sah-lftma spoke of! . . . and what a 
strange sickening yearning suddenly filled his soul for the 
unforgotten sonorous dash of the sea! He drew a quick 
breath and pressed his friend’s arm with unconscious 
fervor, . . . why, why could he not take this dear compan¬ 
ion away out of possible peril ? . . . away to those far 
lands dimly remembered, yet now so completely lost sight 
of, that they seemed to him but as a delusive mirage 
faintly discerned above the rising waters of Lethe! Sigh¬ 
ing deeply, he controlled his emotion and forced himseli 
to speak calmly though his voice trembled. . 

“ Not now then, but hereafter, thou’lt be my fellow- 
traveller, Sah-lfima ? . . ’twill be a joyous time when we, 
set free of present hindrance, may journey through a myr¬ 
iad glorious scenes together, sharing such new and mutual 
gladness that perchance we scarce shall miss the splendor 


AM) ATII. 


'321 

•f Al-Kyris left behind! Meanwhile I would that thou 
couldst promise me one thing,” . . here he paused, hut, 
seeing Sah-lhma’s inquiring look, went on in a low, eager 
tone! “ Go not to the Temple to-night!—absent thyself 

from this Sacrifice, which, though it be the law of the 
realm, is nevertheless mere murderous barbarity,—and—, 
inasmuch as the King is wrathful—I pray thee avoid hi$ 
presence! ” 

Sah-lfima broke into a laugh. . “ Now by my faith 
good comrade, as well ask me for my head as demand 
such impossibilities! Absent myself from the temple to. 
night of all nights in the world, when owing to these late 
phenomenal occurrences in the city, every one who is of 
repute and personal distinction will be present to assist at 
the Service and offer petitions to the fabulous gods that 
haply their supposititious indignation may be averted? 
My friend, if only for the sake of custom I must be there, .. 
moreover, I should be liable to banishment from the realm 
for so specially marked a breach of religious discipline \ 
And as for the King, he is my puppet; were he savage as 
a starving bear my voice could tame him,—and concerning 
his late churlishness ’twas no doubt mere heat of humor^ 
and thou shalt see him sue to me for pardon as only mon. 
archs can sue to the bards who keep them in tneir thrones. 
Knowest thou not that were I to string three stanzas of a 
fiery republican ditty, and set it floating on the lips of 
the people, that song would sing down Zephoranim from 
his royal estate more surely than the fury of an armed 
conqueror! Believe it!— we, the poets, rule the nation, .. 
A rhyme has oft had power to kill a king! ” 

Theos smiled at the proud boast, but made no reply, as 
by this time they had reached the Laureate’s palace, and 
were ascending the steps that led into the entrance-hall. 
A young page advanced to meet them, and, dropping on 
one knee before his master, held out a small scroll tied 
across and across with what appeared to be a thick strand 
of amber-colored floss silk. 

“ For the most illustrious Chief of Poets, Sah-lhma ”. . . 
said the little lad, keeping his head bent humbly as he 
spoke. . . . “ It was brought lately by one masked, who 
rode in haste and fear, and, ere he could be questioned, 
swift departed.” 

Sah-lhma took the missive carelessly, scarcely glancing 
at it, and crossed the hall toward his own apartment, 

21 


ARDAT£. 


32 $ 

Theos following him. On his way, however, he paused 
and turned round: 

“Has Niphrata yet come home?” he demanded of the 
page who still lingered. 

“No, my lord!.. naught hath been seen or heard con¬ 
cerning her.” 

Sah-luma gave a petulant gesture of annoyance and 
passed on. Arrived in his study he seated himself, and 
allowed his eyes to rest more attentively on the packet just 
given him. As he looked he uttered a slight exclamation. 
Theos hastened to his side. 

“What has happened, Sah-lfima?. .hast thou ill news?” 

“Ill news?—nay, of a truth I know not,”..and the 
Laureate gazed up blankly into his friend's face . .“but 
this,”. . and he touched the fair silken substance that tied 
the scroll he held, “this is Niphrata's hair!” 

“ Niphrata’s hair !”. . Theos was too much surprised to 
do more than repeat the words mechanically, while a 
strange pang shot through his heart as of inward shame or 
sorrow. 

“Naught can deceive mein the color of that gold!” 
went on Sah-lftma dreamily, as with careful, somewhat 
tremulous fingers, he gently loosened the twisted, shining 
threads that were so delicately knotted together, and 
smoothing them out to their full length, displayed what 
was indeed a lovely tress of hair bright as woven sunlight 
with a rippling wave in it that, like the tendril of a vine, 
caught and wound about his hand as though it were a fond 
and feeling thing. 

“ See you not, Theos, how warm and soft and shudder¬ 
ing a curl it is? . .It clings to me as if it knew my touch! 
as if it half remembered how many and many a time it 
had been drawn with its companions to my lips and kissed 
full tenderly! How sad and desolate it seems thus severed 
and alone!” 

He spoke gently, yet not without a touch of passion, 
and twined the fair tresses lingeringly round his fingers, 
. .then, with the air of one who is instinctively prepared 
for some unpleasing tidings, he opened the scroll and pe¬ 
rused its contents in silence. As he read on, his face grew 
very grave and full of pained and wondering regret. . 
Quietly he passed the missive to Theos, who took it from 
his hand with a tremor of something like fear. The 
delicately traced characters with which it was covered 



ARDATm aas- 

floated for amoment m a faint blur before bis syes^then 
they resolvec themselves into legible shape ^nd meaning, 

as follows: 

“ To i_ie ever-worsiiiped and immortally renowned 
“ Sah-luma, 

“ Poet-Laureate ci -he Kingdom of Al-Kyris. 

4 'Blame me not, O my beloved Lord, that I have .ef^ 
thy dearest presence thus unwamedly forever, staying no time to 
weary thee with my too fond and foolish tears and kisses of f&rewexl l 
I owe to thee ono gift of freedom, and while I thank thee for that gift, * 
I do employ it now to serve me as a sacrifice to Love,- -an immolation ' 
of myself upon the areal’s of my own desire l Fo* thou Knowest I have 
loved thee, O Sali-luma—not too well but most unwisely,—for what 
am I that thou shouldst stoop to cover my unworthiness with the royal 
purple of thy poet-passion ? . . . what could I ever he save the poor 
trembling slave-idolater, of whose endearments thou must needs most 
speedily tire ! Nevertheless I cannot still this hunger of my heart,— 
this love that stings me more than it consoles,—and out of the very 
transport of my burning thoughts I have learned many and strange 
things,—things whereby I, a woman feebled and imlessoned, have 
grasped the glimmering foreknowledge of events to come,—events 
wherein I do perceive for thee, thou Cliiefest among men, some dark 
and threatening disaster. Wherefore I have prayed unto the most 
high gods, that they will deign to accept me as tliy hostage to mis- 
fortune, and set me as a bar between thy life and dawning peril, so 
that I, long valueless, may serve at least awhile to avert docm from 
thee who art unparagoned thoroughout the world ! 

“ Thus I go forth alone to brave and pacify the wrath of the Im¬ 
mortals,—call me not back nor weep for my departure, . . thou wilt 
not miss me long ! To die for thee, Sah-luma, is better than to live 
for thee, . . for living I must needs be conquered by my sin of love 
and lose myself and thee,—but in the quiet Afterwards of Death, no 
passion shall have strength to mar the peaceful, patient waiting of 
my soul on thine ! Farewell thou utmost heart of my weak heart ! 

. . thou only life of my frail life ! . . think of me sometimes if thou 
will, but only as of a flower thou didst gather once in some past half- 
forgotten spring-time . . a flower that, as it slowly withered, blessed 
the dear hand in whose warm clasp it died ! 

“ Niphrata.” 

Tears rose to Theos’s eyes as he finished reading these 
evidently unpremeditated pathetic words that suggested 
so much more than they actually declared. ITe silently 
returned the scroll to Sah-luma, who sat very still, 
thoughtfully stroking the long, bright curl that was 
twisted round his fingers like a glittering strand of spun 
glass,—and he felt all at once so unreasonably irritated , 
with his friend, that he was even inclined to find fault 
with the very grace and beauty of his person, . . the mere 
indolence of his attitude was, for the moment, provoking. 


324 ~ AMDATff. 

" Why art thou so unmoved ? 99 he demanded almost 
sternly. 

*' What has thou done to !Niphr&ta, to thus grieve her 
gentle spirit beyond remedy ? " 

Sah-lfima looked up, like a surprised child. 

** Done ? . . Nay, what should I do ? . .1 have let her 
love me ! 99 

0 sublime permission ! # . he had “ let her love 99 him ! 
. . He had condescendingly allowed her, as it were, to 
waste all the treasures of her soul upon him 1 Theoa 
stared at him in vague amazement,—while he, apparently 
tired of his own reflections, continued with some impa¬ 
tience : 

“ What more could she desire ? . . I never barred hei 
from my presence, . . nor checked the fervor of her greet¬ 
ings ! I wore the flowers she chose,—I listened to the 
songs she sang, and when she looked more fair than ordi¬ 
nary I stinted not the warmth of my caresses. She was 
too meek and loving for my fancy . . no will save mine— 
no happiness save in my company,—no thought beyond 
my pleasure—one wearies of such a fond excess of sweet¬ 
ness 1 Nevertheless her sole delight was still to serve 
me,—could I debar her from that joy because I saw therein 
some danger for her peace ? Slave as she was, I made her 
free—and lo! how capriciously she plays with her late- 
given liberty ! 'Tis always the way with women,—no man 
shall ever learn how best to please them ! She knew I 
loved her not as lovers love,—she knew my heart was 
elsewhere fixed and fated • • and if, notwithstanding this 
knowledge, she still chose to love me, then assuredly her 
grief is of her own creating I Methinks *tis I who am most 
injured in this matter I . . all the day long I have tor¬ 
mented myself concerning the silly maiden's absence, while 
she, seized by some crazed idea of new adventure, has gone 
forth heedlessly, scarce knowing whither. Her letter is 
the exalted utterance of an overwrought, excited brain, 
—she has in all likelihood caught the contagion of su¬ 
perstitious alarm that seems just now to possess the whole 
city, and she knows naught of what she writes or what 
she means to do. To leave me forever, as she says, is out 
of her power,—for I will demand her back at the hands 
of Lysia or the King,—and no demand of mine has ever 
been refused. Moreover, with Lysia’s aid, her hiding* 
place is soon and easily discovered 1" 


ARDAT3. 


325 

u How ?" asked Theos mechanically, still surveying the 
beautiful, calm features of the charming egotist whose 
nature seemed such a curious mixture of loftiness and 
littleness.. “ She may have left the city! ” 

“ No one can leave the city without express permission ,” 
—rejoined Sah-lftma tranquilly —“ Besides,. .didst thou 
not see the Black Disc last night in Lysia's palace ?" 

Theos nodded assent. He at once remembered the 
strange revolving thing that had covered itself with 
brilliant letters at the approach of the High Priestess, and 
he waited eomewhat eagerly to hear the meaning of so 
singular an object explained. 

“ The Priest of the Temple of Nag&ya,”—went on Sah- 
lftma—“are the greatest scientists in the world, with the 
exception of the lately formed Circle of Mystics, who it 
must be confessed exceed them in certain new lines of 
discovery. But setting aside the M 3 7 stic School, which it 
behooves us not to speak of, seeing it is condemned by law, 
—there are no men living more subtly wise in matters 
pertaining to aerial force and light-phenomena, than the 
Servants of the Secret Doctrine of the Temple. All seem¬ 
ing-marvellous things are to them mere child’s play,—and 
the miracles by which they keep the multitude in awe are 
not by any means vulgar, but most exquisitely scientific. 
As, for instance, at the great New Year Festival, called 
by us ‘ The Sailing-Forth of the Ship of the Sun/—which 
takes place at the commencement of the Spring solstice, a 
fire is kindled on the summit of the highest tower, and a 
Ship of gold rises from the centre of the flames, carrying 
the body of a slain virgin eastwards, .. ’tis wondrously 
performed !.. and I, like others, have gaped upon the 
splendor of the scene half-credulous, and wholly dazzled ! 
For the ship doth rise aloft with excellent stateliness, 
plowing the air with as much celerity as sailing-vessels 
plow the seas; departing straightway from the watching 
eyes of thousands of spectators, it plunges deep, or so it 
seems, into the very heart of the rising Sun, which doth 
apparently absorb it in devouring flames of glory, for 
never again doth it return to earth,.. and none can solve 
the mystery of its vanishing ! 'Tis a graceful piece of jug¬ 
glery and perfectly accomplished,.. while as for Oracles* 
that command and repeat their commands in every shade 

* The Phonograph was known arid used for the utterance of Oracle* 
by one Savan the Aimounian t a Priest-King of ancient Egypt. 


ARB ATE. 


826 

of tone, from mild to wrathful, there are only too many of 
these, . . moreover the secret of their manufacture is well 
known to all students of acoustic science. But concern¬ 
ing the Black Disc in Lysia’s hall, it is a curiously elaborate 
piece of workmanship. It corresponds with an eleotric 
wheel in the Interior Chamber of the Temple, where all the 
priests and flamens meet and sum up the entire events of 
the day, both public and private, condensing the same into 
brief hieroglyphs. Setting their wheel in motion, they 
start a similar motion in the Disc, and the bright .char¬ 
acters that flash upon it and disappear like quicksilver, 
are the reflection of the working electric wires which 
write what only Lysia is skilled to read. From sunset to 
midnight these messages keep coming without intermis¬ 
sion,—and all the most carefully concealed affairs of Al- 
Kyris are discovered by the Temple Spies and conveyed 
to Lysia by this means. Whatever the news, it is repeated 
again and again on the Disc, till she, by rapidly turning 
it with a peculiar movement of her own, causes a small 
bell to ring in the Temple, which signifies to her informers 
that she has understood all their communications, and 
knows everything. Her inquisitorial system is searching 
and elaborate, . . there is no secret so carefully guarded 
that the Black Disc will not in time reveal !” 

Theos listened wonderingly and with a sense of repug¬ 
nance and fear, ... he felt as though the beautiful Priest¬ 
ess, with her glittering robes and the dreadful jewelled 
Eye upon her breast, were just then entering the -room 
stealthily and rustling hither and thither like a snake 
beneath covering leaves. She was an ever-present Temp¬ 
tation,—a bewildering snare and distracting evil,—was 
it not possible to shake her trail off the life of his friend 
—and also to pluck from out his own heart the poison¬ 
sting of her fatal, terrible fascination ? A red mist swam 
before his eyes—his lips were dry and feverish, —his voice 
sounded hoarse and faint in his own ears when he forced 
himself to speak again. 

“ So thou dost think that, wheresoever Niphr&ta hath 
strayed, Lysia can find her?” he said. 

“Assuredly!” returned Sah-lhma with easy compla¬ 
cency—“I would swear that, even at this very moment, 
Lysia could restore her to my arms in safety.” 

“Then why” . . suggested Theos anxiously—“why not 
go forth and seek her now?” 


ART)ATE. 


327 

“Nay, there is time!” . . . and Sah-lhma half closed 
his languid lids and stretched himself lazily. “ I would 
not have the child imagine I vexed myself too greatly for 
her unkind departure, . . she must have space wherein 
to weep and repent her of her folly. She is the strangest 
maiden!” . . and he brushed his lips lightly against the 
golden curl he held,—“ She loves me, . . . and yet repulses 
all attempted passion,—I remember ” . . here his face grew 
more serious—“ I remember one night in the beginning of 
summer,—the moon was round and high in heaven;—we 
were alone together in this room,—the lamps burned low, 
—and she,. . Niphrata, . . sang to me. Her voice was 
full, and withal tremulous,—her form, bent to her ebony 
harp, was soft and yielding as an iris stem, her eyes turned 
upon mine seemed wonderingly to question me as to the 
worth of love! . . or so I fancied. The worth of love! . 
I would have taught it to her then in the rapture of an 
hour!—but seized with sudden foolish fear she fled, leav¬ 
ing me dissatisfied, indifferent, and weary! No matter! 
when she returns again her mood will alter, . . and though 
* love her not as she would fain be loved, I shall find 
neans to make her happy.” 

“Nay, but she speaks of dying” , . said Theos quickly. 

“ Wilt thou constrain her back from death?” 

“ My friend, all women speak of dying when they are 
love-wearied”. . . replied Sah-lhma with a slight smile 
. . . “Niphr&ta will not die, . . . she is too young and 
fond of life, .... the world is as a garden wherein she 
has but lately entered, all ignorant of the pleasures that 
await her there. 'Tis an odd notion that she has of dan¬ 
ger threatening me,—thou also, good Theos, art become 
full of omens,—and yet, . . there is naught of visible ill 
to trouble the fairness of the day.” 

He stepped out as he spoke on the terrace and looked 
up at the intense calm of the lovely sky. Theos followed 
him, and stood leaning on the balustrade among the clam¬ 
bering vines, watching him with earnest, half-regretful, 
half-adoring eyes. He, meanwhile, gathered a scarcely 
opened white rosebud, and loosening the tress of Niphrata's 
hair from his fingers, allowed it to hang to its full rip¬ 
pling length,—then laying the flower against it, he ap¬ 
peared dreamily to admire the contrast between the snowy 
blossom and shining curl. 

“Many strange men there are in the world,” he said 


328 


ARB A TH. 


softly—“ lovers and fools who set priceless store on a rose 
and a lock of woman’s hair! I have heard of some who, 
dying, have held such trifles as chiefest of all their 
worldly goods, and have implored that whereas their gold 
and household stuff can be bestowed freely on him who 
first comes to claim it, the faded flower and senseless 
tress may be laid on their hearts to comfort them in the 
cold and dreamless sleep from which they shall not wake 
again! ” He sighed and his eyes darkened into deep and 
musing tenderness. Poets there have been too and are, 
who would string many a canticle on this soft severed 
lock and gathered blossom,—and many a quaint conceit 
could I myself contrive concerning it, did I not feel more 
prjne to tears to-day than minstrelsy. Canst thou be¬ 
lieve it, Theos”—and he forced a laugh, though his lashes 
were wet, . . “ I, the joyous Sah-lfima, am for once most 
truly sad! . . this tress of hair doth seem to catch my 
spirit in a chain that binds me fast and draws me onward 
. . onward . . to some mournful end I may not dare to 
see ! ” 

And as he spoke he mechanically wound the golden 
curl round and about the stem of the rosebud in the 
fashion of a ribbon, and placed the two entwined together 
in his breast. Theos looked at him wistfully, but was 
silent, . . he himself was too full of dull and melancholy 
misgivings to be otherwise than sad also. Instinctively 
he drew closer to his friend’s side, and thus they remained 
for some minutes, exchanging no words, and gazing 
dreamily out on the luxurious foliage of the trees and the 
wealth of bright blossoms that adorned the landscape 
before them. 

“Thou art confident Niphrata will return?” ques¬ 
tioned Theos presently in a low tone. 

“ She will return,” . . rejoined Sah-lfima quietly— 
“because she will do anything for love of me.” 

“ For love’s sake she may die ! ” said Theos. Sah-lfuna 
smiled. 

“Not so, my friend! . . for love’s sake she wifi 
live! ” 


ABBATH. 




CHAPTER XXVI. 

THE PRIEST ZEL. 

As he uttered the last word the sound of an approaching 
light step disturbed the silence. It was one of the young 
girls of the household, . . a dark, haughty-looking beauty 
whom Theos remembered to have seen in the palace-hall 
when he first arrived, lying indolently among cushions, 
and playing with a tame bird which flew to and fro at 
her beckoning. She advanced now with an almost im¬ 
perial stateliness,—her salute to Sah-lhma was graceful, 
yet scarcely submissive,—while he, turning eagerly 
toward her, seemed gladdened and relieved at her appear¬ 
ance, his face assuming a gratified expression like that 
of a child who, having broken one toy, is easily consoled 
with another. 

“Welcome, Irenya!” he exclaimed gayly—“Thou art 
the very bitter-sweetness I desire. Thy naughty pout 
and coldly mutinous eyes are pleasing contrasts to the 
overlanguid heat and brightness of the day! What news 
hast thou, my sweet? . . Is there fresh havoc in the 
city? . . more deaths? . . more troublous tidings? . . 
nay, then hold thy peace, for thou art not a fit messenger 
of woe—thou’rt much too fair ! ” 

Irenya’s red lips curled disdainfully, . . the “naughty 
pout ” was plainly visible. 

“My lord is pleased to flatter his slave! ” she said with 
a touch of scorn in her musical accents, . . “ Certes, of 
ill news there is more than enough,—and evil rumors 
have never been lacking these many months, as my lord 
would have known, had he deigned to listen to the com¬ 
mon talk of those who are not poets but merely sad and 
suffering men. Nevertheless, though I may think, 1> 
speak not at all of matters such a& these,—and for my 
present errand ’tis but to say that a Priest of the Inner 
Temple waits without, desirous of instant speech with 
the most illustrious Sah-lftma.” 

“ A Priest of the Inner Temple! ” echoed the Laureate 
wonderingly, . . “ By my faith, a most unwelcome 
visitor! . . What business can he have with me?” 


880 


ARDAT1I. - 


“ Nay, that I know not”—responded Irenya calmly— 
“ He hath come hither, so he bade me say, by command 
of The Absolute Authority.” 

Sah-lfuna’s face flushed and he looked annoyed. Then 
taking Theos by the arm he turned away from the 
terrace, and re-entered his apartment, where he flung 
himself full length on his couch, pillowing his handsome 
head against a fold of glossy leopard skin which formed a 
most becoming background for the soft, dark oval beauty 
of his features. 

“ Sit thee down, my friend! ” he said glancing smilingly 
at Theos, and signing to him to take possession of a 
luxurious lounge-chair near him , . “If we must needs 
receive this sanctified professor of many hypocrisies, we 
will do it with suitable indifference and ease. Wilt thou 
stay here with us, Irenya,” he added, stretching out one 
arm and catching the maiden round the waist in spite of 
her attempted resistance . . “ Or art thou in a froward 
mood, and wilt thou go thine own proud way without so 
much as a consoling kiss from Sah-lftma ? ” 

Irenya looked full at him, a repressed anger blazing in 
her large black eyes. 

“ Let my lord save his kisses for those who value them! ” 
she said contemptuously, “ ’Twere pity he should waste 
them upon me, to whom they are unmeaning and there¬ 
fore all unwelcome! ” 

He laughed heartily, and instantly loosened her from 
his embrace. 

“ Off, off with thee, sweet virtue! . . fairest prude! ” 
he cried, still laughing . . “ Live out thy life an thou wilt, 
empty of love or passion—count the years as they slip by, 
leaving thee each day less lovely and less fit for pleasure, 

. . grow old,—and on the brink of death, look back, poor 
child, and see the glory thou hast missed and left behind 
thee! . . the light of love and youth that, once departed, 
can dawn again no more! ” 

And lifting himself slightly from his cushions he kissed' 
his hand playfully to the girl, who, as though suddenly 
overcome by a sort of vague regret, still lingered, gazing 
at him, while a faint color crept through her cheeks like 
the deepening hue on the leaves of an opening rose. Sah- 
lftma saw her hesitation, and his face grew yet more radiant 
with malicious mirth. 

“ Hence . . hence, Irenya ! ” he exclaimed—“ Escape 


ABBA TH. 


331 


temptation quickly while thou mayest ! Support thy 
virgin pride in peace ! . . thou shalt never say again Sah- 
lttma’s kisses are unwelcome! The Poet’s touch shall 
never wrong or sanctify thy name!—thou art safe from 
me as pillared icicles in everlasting snow! Dear little one, 
be happy without love if that be possible ! . . . neverthe¬ 
less take heed thou do not weakly clamor in the after¬ 
years for once rejected joy !—Now bid yon waiting Priest 
attend me,—tell him I can but spare a few brief moments 
audience.” 

Irenya’s head drooped,—Theos saw tears in her eyes,— 
but she managed to restrain them, and with something 
of a defiant air she made her formal obeisance and with¬ 
drew. She did not return again, but a page appeared 
instead, ushering in with ceremonious civility a tall per¬ 
sonage, clad in flowing white robes and muffled up to the 
eyes in a mantle of silver tissue,—a majestic, mysterious, 
solemn-looking individual, who, pausing on the threshold 
of the apartment, described a circle in the air with a small 
staff he carried, and said in monotonous accents: 

“ By the going-in and passing-out of the Sun through 
the Gates of the East and the Gates of the West,—by the 
Vulture of Gold and White Lotus and the countless virtues 
of Nagaya, may peace dwell in this house forever ! ” 

“ Agreed to with all my heart! ” responded Sah-lftma, 
carelessly looking up from his couch but making no 
attempt to rise, . . “ Peace is an excellent thing, most 
holy father! ” 

“ Excellent! ” returned the Priest slowly advancing and 
undoing his mantle so that his face became fully visible, 

_“ So truly excellent indeed, that at times it is needful 

to make war in order to insure it.” 

He sat down, as he spoke, in a chair which was placed 
for him at Sah-lfima’s bidding by the page who had 
ushered him in, and he maintained a grave silence till 
that youthful servitor had departed. Theos meanwhile 
studied his countenance with some curiosity,—it was so 
strangely impassive, yet at the same time so full of dis¬ 
tinctly marked intellectual power. The features were 
handsome but also singularly repulsive,—they were 
rendered to a certain degree dignified by a full, dark 
beard which, however, failed entirely to conceal the re¬ 
ceding chin, and compressed, cruel mouth,—the eyes were 
keen and crafty and very clear,—the forehead was high 


3852 ABDATH 

and intelligent, and deeply furrowed with lines that 
seemed to be the result of much pondering over close and 
cunning calculation, rather than the marks of profound, 
unselfish, and ennobling thought. The page having left 
the room, Sah-lftma began the conversation: 

“ To what unexpected cause, most righteous sir, am I 
indebted for the honor of this present visit ? Methinks I 
recognize the countenance of the famous Zel, the High- 
Priest of the Sacrificial Altar—if so, ’tis marvellous so 
great a man should venture forth alone and unattended, 
to the house of one who loves not priestly company, and 
who hath at best for all professors of religion a somewhat 
indifferent welcome! ” 

Thd Priest smiled coldly. 

“ Most rightly dost thou speak, Sah-lftma”—he answered, 
his measured, metallic voice seeming to strike a wave 
of chilling discord through the air, “ and most frankly 
hast thou thus declared one of thy many deficiencies 1 
Atheist as thou art and to that manner born, thou art in 
very deed outside the pale of all religious teaching and 
consolement, . . nevertheless there is much gentle mercy 
shown thee by the Virgin Priestess of Nagaya” . . here 
he solemnly bent his head and made the rapid sign of a 
Circle on his breast, . . “ who, knowing thy great genius, 
doth ever strive with thoughtful zeal to draw thee closely 
within the saving Silver Veil! Yet it is possible that 
even her patience with thy sins may tire at last,—where¬ 
fore while there is time, offer due penance to the offended 
gods and humble thy stiff heart before the Holy Maid, 
lest she expel thee from her sight forever.” He paused, 
. . a satirical, half-amused smile hovered round Sah- 
lilma’s delicate mouth—his eyes flashed. 

“ All this is the mere common rhetoric of the Temple 
Craft ”—he said indolently. . “ Why not, good Zel, give 
plainer utterance to thine errand ?—we know each other’s 
follies well enough to spare formalities! Lysia has sent 
thee hither, . . what then ? . . what says the beauteous 
Virgin to her willing slave?” 

An undertone of mockery rang through the languid 
silvery sweetness of his accents, and the Priest’s dark 
brow's knitted in an irritated frown. 

“Thou art over-flippant of speech, Sah-liima!” he 
observed austerely. “ Take heed thou be not snared into 
misfortune by the glibness Of I,by ton true! Thou <iosfc 


AkLATS. 333 

speak of the chaste Lysia with unseemly lightness.—learn 
to be reverent, and so shalt thou be wiser! ” 

Sah-lftma laughed and settled himself more easily on his 
couch, turning in such a mannbr as to look the stately 
Z61 full in the face. They exchanged one glance, express¬ 
ive as it seemed of some mutual secret understanding,— 
for the Priest coughed as though he were embarrassed, 
and stroked his beard deliberately with one hand in an 
endeavor to hide the strange smile that, despite his efforts 
to conceal it, visibly lightened his cold eyes to a sudden 
tigerish brilliancy. 

“ The mission with which I am charged,” he resumed 
presently,—“is to thee, Chief Laureate of the realm, and 
runs as followeth: Whereas thou hast of late avoided 
many days of public service in the Temple, so that those 
among the people who admire thee follow thine ill ex¬ 
ample, and absent themselves also with equal readiness, 
—the Priestess Undefiled, the noble Lysia, doth to-night 
command thy presence as a duty not to be foregone. 
Therefore come thou and take thy part in the Great 
Sacrifice, for these late tumults and disaster in the city, 
notably the perplexing downfall of the Obelisk, have 
caused all hearts to fail and sink for very fear. The river 
darkens in its crimson hue each hour by passing hour,— 
strange noises have been heard athwart the sky and in 
the deeper underground, . . and all these drear unwonted 
things are so many cogent reasons why we should in 
solemn unison implore the favor of Uag&ya and the gods 
whereby further catastrophes may be perchance averted. 
Moreover for motives of most urgent state-policy it is 
advisable that all who hold place, dignity, and renown 
within the city should this night be seen as fervent sup¬ 
plicants before the Sacred Shrine,—so may much threaten¬ 
ing rebellion be appeased, and order be restored out of 
impending confusion. Such is the message X am bidden 
to convey to thee,—furthermore I am required to bear 
back again to the High Priestess thy faithful promise that 
her orders shall be surely and entirely obeyed. Thou art 
not wont” . . and a pale sneer flitted over his features . . 
“ to set her mandate at defiance.” 

Sah-lUma bit his lips angrily, and folded his arms above 
his head with a lazy yet impatient movement. 

Assuredly I shall be present at the Service,” he said 
partly . . “ There needed no such weighty summoning! 


334 


ARDATH. 


’Twas my intention to join the ranks of worshippers to¬ 
night, though for myself I have no faith in worship,. . the 
gods I ween are deaf, and care not a jot whether we 
mortals weep or sing. Nevertheless I shall look on with 
fitting gravity, and deport myself with due decorum 
throughout the ceremonious Ritual, though verily I tell 
thee, reverend Z&l,’tis tedious and monotonous at best, . . 
and concerning the poor maiden-sacrifice,it is a shuddering 
horror we could well dispense with.” 

“ I think not so,” . . replied the Priest calmly. “ Thou, 
who art well instructed in the capricious humors of men, 
must surely know how dearly the majority of them love 
the shedding of blood,—’tis a clamorous brute-instinct in 
them which must be satisfied. Better therefore that we, 
the anointed Priests, should slay one willing victim for 
the purposes of religion, than that they, the ignorant mob, 
should kill a thousand to gratify their lust of murder. 
An unresentful, all-loving Deity would be impossible of 
comprehension to a mutually hating and malignant race 
of beings,—all creeds must be accommodated to the dis¬ 
positions of the million.” 

“ Pardon me . . ” suddenly interrupted Theos, “ I am a 
stranger, and in a great measure ignorant of this city’s 
customs, . . but I confess I am amazed to hear a Priest 
uphold so specious an argument! What! . must divine 
Religion be dragged down from its pure throne to pander 
to the selfish passions of the multitude ? . . . because men 
are vile, must a vile god be invented to suit their savage 
caprices ? . . because men are so cruel, must the unseen 
Creator of things be delineated as even more barbarous 
than they, in order to give them some pietistical excuse 
for wickedness ?—I ask these questions not out of wanton 
curiosity, but for the sake of instruction ! ” 

The haughty Zel turned upon him in severe astonish¬ 
ment. 

“ Sir,” he said—“ Stranger undoubtedly thou art,—and 
so bold a manner of speech most truly savors of the 
utterly uneducated western barbarian! All wise and 
prudent governments have learned that a god fit for the 
adoration of men must be depicted as much like men as 
possible,—any absolutely superhuman attributes are un¬ 
necessary to the character of a useful deity, inasmuch as 
no man ever will, or ever can, understand the worth of 
superhuman qualities. Humanity is only capable of 


iRDATII. 


335 


worshipping Self—thus, it is necessary, that when people 
are persuaded to pay honor to an elected Divinity, they 
should be well and comfortably assured in their own 
minds that they are but offering homage to an Image of 
Self placed before them in a deified or heroic form. This 
satisfies the natural idolatrous cravings of Egotism, and 
this is all that priests or teachers desire. Now in the 
worship of Nag&ya, we have the natures of Man and 
Woman conjoined, . . the Snake is the emblem of male 
wisdom united with female subtilty—and the two essences, 
mingled in one, make as near an approach to what we 
may imagine the positive Divine capacity as can be 
devised on earth by earthly intelligences. If, on the other 
hand, such an absurd doctrine as that formulated in the 
fanatic madman Khosrfd’s 4 Prophecy ’ could be imagined 
as actually admitted, and proclaimed to the nations, it 
would have very few followers, and the sincerity of those 
few might well be open to doubt. For the Deity it speaks 
of is supposed to be an immortal God disguised as Man,— 
a God who voluntarily rejects and sets aside His own 
glory to serve and save His perishable creatures,—thus 
the root of that religion would consist in Self-abnegation, 
and Self-abnegation is, as experience proves, utterly impos¬ 
sible to the human being.” 

“ Why is it impossible ? ” asked Theos with a quiver of 
passionate earnestness in his voice,—“Are there none in 
all the world who would sacrifice their own interests to 
further another’s welfare and happiness ? ” 

The Priest smiled,—a delicately derisive smile. 

“ Certainly not! ” he replied blandly . . “ The very 
question strikes me as singularly foolish, inasmuch as we 
live in a planet where, if we do not serve ourselves and 
look after our own personal advantage, we may as well 
die the minute we are born, or, better still, never be born 
at all. There is no one living, . . at least not in the wide 
realm of Al-Kyris,—who would put himself to the small¬ 
est inconvenience for the sake of another, were that other 
his nearest and dearest blood-relation. And in matters 
of love and friendship, ’tis the same as in business,—each 
man eagerly pursues his own chance of enjoyment,—even 
when he loves, or fancies he loves, a woman, it is solely 
because her beauty or attractiveness gives him temporary 
pleas are, not because he has any tenderness or after-regard 
for the nature of her feelings. How can it be otherwise ? 


AHDAT: r > 


m 

• * We elect friends tlmt are useful to us personally,— wo 
care little for their intrinsic merit, and we only tolerate 
them as long as they happen to suit our taste. For 
generally, on the first occasion of a disagreement or differ¬ 
ence of opinion, we shake ourselves free of them without 
either regret or remorse, and seek others who will be 
meek enough not to offer us any open contradiction. It 
is, and it must be always so : Self is the first person we 
are bound to consider, and all religions, if they are in¬ 
tended to last, must prudently recognize and silently ac¬ 
quiesce in this, the chief dogma of Man’s constitution.” 

Sah-lfuna laughed. “ Excellently argued, most politic 
Zdl!” he exclaimed . . “ Yet methinks it is easy to wor¬ 
ship Self without either consecrated altars or priestly 
assistance ! ” 

“ Thou shouldst know better than any one with what 
facility such devotion can be practiced! ” returned Zel 
ironically, rising as he spoke, and beginning to wrap his 
mantle round him preparatory to departure—“ Thou hast a 
wider range of perpetual adoration than most men, seeing 
thou dost so fully estimate the value of thine own genius ! 
Some heretics there are in the city, who say thy merit is 
but a trick of song shared by thee in common with the 
birds, . . . who truly seem to take no pride in the par¬ 
ticular sweetness of their unsyllabled language, . . but 
thou thyself art better instructed, and who shall blame 
thee for the veneration with which thou dost daily con¬ 
template thine own intellectual powers? Not I, believe 
me! ” . . and his crafty eyes glittered mockingly, as he 
arranged his silver gauze muffler so that it entirely veiled 
the lower part of his features, . . “ And though I do 
.somewhat regret to learn that thou, among other noble¬ 
men- of fashion, hast of late taken part in the atheistic 
discussions encouraged by the Positivist School of Thought, 
still, as a priest, my duty is not so much to reproach as to 
call thee to repentance. Therefore I inwardly rejoice to 
know thou wilt present thyself before the Shrine to-night, 
if only for the sake of custom ...” 

“ * Only ’ for the sake of custom I ” repeated Sah-lftma 
amusedly—“ Nay, good Z&l, custom should be surely classi¬ 
fied as an exceeding powerful god, inasmuch as it rules 
all things, from the cut of our clothes to the form of our 
creedjs! ” 

True! ” replied Zel imperturbably. “ And he wb*^ 


ARDATB I 337 

despises custom becomes an alien from his kind,—a moral 
leper among the pure and clean.” 

“ Oh, say rather a lion among sheep, a^giant among pig¬ 
mies I” laughed the Laureate,—“For by my soul, a man 
who had the courage to scorn custom, and set the small 
hypocrisies of society at defiance, would he a glorious 
hero ! . a warrior of strange integrity whom it would be 
well worth travelling miles to see ! ” 

“Khosrfil was such an one I” interposed Theos sud¬ 
denly. 

“ Tush, man! Khosrfil was mad!” retorted Sah- 
lfima. 

“ Are not all men thought mad who speak the truth ? ” 
queried Theos gently. 

The priest Zel looked at him with proud and super¬ 
cilious eyes. 

“Thou hast strange notions for one still young,” he 
said. . . “ What art thou ?” . . a new disciple of the 
Mystics ? . . or a student of the Positive Doctrines ? ” 

Theos met his gaze unflinchingly. ** What am I ? ” he 
murmured sadly, and his voice trembled, . . “ Reverend 
Priest, I am nothing ! . . Great are the sufferings of men 
who have lost their wealth, their home, their friends, . . 
but I . . I have lost Myself ! Were I anything . . could 
I ever hope to be anything, I would pray to be accepted 
a servant of the Cross, . . that far-off unknown Faith t® 
which my tired spirit clings 1 ” 

As he uttered these words he raised his eyes, . , . ho^ 
dim and misty at the moment seemed the tall white fig¬ 
ure of the majestic Zel! . and in contrast to it how brill¬ 
iantly distinctly Sah-lfima's radiant face appeared, turned 
toward him in inquiring wonderment! . . He felt a 

swooning dizziness upon him, but the sensation swiftlj 
passed, and he saw the haughty Priest's dark brows benf 
upon him in a frown of ominous disapproval. 

“ 'Tis well thou art not a citizen of Al-Kyris,”—ha said 
scornfully. “ To strangers we accord a certain license o/ 
opinion,—but if thou wert a native of these realms, thj 
speech would cost thee dear ! As it is, I warn thee ! . 8 
dare not to make public mention of the Cross, the ac¬ 
cursed Emblem of the dead Khosrftl’s idolatry, . . guard 
thy tongue heedfully !—and thou, Sah-lfima, if thou dost 
bring this rashling with thee to the Temple, thou must 
take upon thyself all measures for his safety. For m 
2 % 


3 


ARDATH. 


.hese days, some words are like firebrands, . and he who 
casts them lorth incautiously may kindle flames that 
only the forfeit oibhis life can quench.” 

There was a quiver of suppressed fury in his tone, and 
Sah-lUma lifted his lazy lids, and looked at him with an f 
air of tranquil indifference. 

“Prithee, trouble not thyself, most eminent Zel!” he 
answered nonchalantly . . “I will answer for my friend’s 
discretion ! Thou dost mistake his temperament,—he is 
a budding poet, and utters many a disconnected thought 
which hath no meaning save to his own fancy-swarming 
brain,—he saw the frantic Kliosrhl die, and the picture 
hath impressed him for the moment—nothing more! I 
pledge my word for his demurest prudence at the Service 
to-night—I would not have him absent for the world, . . 
’twere pity he should miss the splendor of a scene which 
doubtless hath been admirably contrived, by priestly art 
and skill, to play upon the passions of the multitude. 
Tell me, good Zel, what is the name of the self-offered 
Victim ? ” 

The Priest flashed a strangely malevolent glance at 
him. 

“ ’Tis not to be divulged,” he replied curtly—“ The vir¬ 
gin is no longer counted among the living . . she is as 
one already departed—the name she bore hath been 
erased from the city registers, and she wears instead the 
prouder title of ‘ Bride of the Sun and Nagaya.’ Restrain 
thy curiosity until night hath fallen,—it may be that 
thou, who hast a wide acquaintance among fair maidens, 
wilt recognize her countenance.” , 

“Nay, I trust I know her not”—said Sah-lftma care¬ 
lessly—“ For, though all women die for me when once 
their beauty fades, still am I loth to see them perish ere 
their prime. 

“Yet many are doomed to perish so”—rejoined the 
Priest impassively—“Men as well as women,—and me- 
thinks those who are best beloved of the gods are 
chosen first to die. Death is not difficult, . . but to live 
long enough for life to lose all savor, and love all charm, 

. . this is a bitterness that comes with years and cannot 
be consoled.” 

And retreating slowly toward the door, he paused as 
he had previously done on the threshold. 

“ Farewell, Sah-lftma! ” he said . . “ Beware that 


ARDATH. 


339 


nothing hinders thee from the fulfillment of thy promise! 
. . and let thy homage to the Holy Maid be reverent at 
the parting of the Silver Veil! ” 

He waited, but Sali-lftma made no answer—he therefore 
raised his staff and described a circle with it in the same 
solemn fashion that had distinguished his entrance. 

“ By the coming-forth of the Moon through the ways of 
Darkness, . . by the shining of Stars, . by the Sleeping 
Sun and the silence of Night, . . by the All-Seeing Eye 
of Raphon and the Wisdom of Nagaya may the protection 
of the gods abide in this house forever! ” 

As he pronounced these words he noiselessly departed, 
without any salutation whatever to Sah-lftma, who heaved 
a sigh of relief when he had gone, and, rising from his 
couch came and placed one hand affectionately on Theos’s 
shoulder. 

“ Thou foolish, yet dear comrade! ” he murmured . . 
“What moves thee to blurt forth such strange and.un¬ 
warrantable sayings? . . Why wouldst thou pray to be a 
servant of the Cross ? . . or why, at any rate, if thou hast 
taken a fancy for the dead KhosrtU’s new doctrine, wert 
thou so rash as to proclaim thy sentiment to yon unprin¬ 
cipled, bloodthirsty ZM, who would not scruple to poison 
the King himself, if his Majesty gave sufficient cause of 
offence! Dost thou desire to be straightway slain ?—Nay, 
I will not have thee run thus furiously into danger,— 
thou wilt be offered the Silver Nectar like Nir-jalis, and 
not even the intercession of my friendship would avail to 
save thee then! ” 

Theos smiled rather sadly. 

“ And thus would end forever my mistakes and follies, . 
he answered softly . . “And I should perchance dis¬ 
cover the small hidden secret of things—the little, simple 
unguessed clue, that would unravel the mystery and 
meaning of Existence! For can it be that the majestic 
marvel of created Nature is purposeless in its design ?— 
that we are doomed to think thoughts which can never 
be realized ?—to dream dreams that perish in the dream¬ 
ing? . . to build up hopes without foundation ? . . to call 
upon God when there is no God ? . . to long for Heaven 
when there is no Heaven? .... Ah no, Sah-lftma!— 
surely we are not the mere fools and dupes of Time, . . . 
surely there is some Eternal Beyond which is not Annihi¬ 
lation, . . some greater, vaster sphere of soul-develop- 


340 ART)ATS .» 

ment where we shall find all that we have missed on 
earth! ” 

Sah-lhnm’s face clouded, and a sigh escaped him. 

“ I would my thoughts were similar to thine ! ” he said 
sorrowfully . . “ I would I could believe in an immortal 
destiny, . . . but alas, my friend! there is no shadow of 
ground for such a happy faith,—none neither in sense nor 
science. I have reflected on it many a time till I have 
wearied myself with mournful musing, and the end of all 
my meditation has been a useless protest against the 
Great Inevitable, . a clamor of disdain hurled at the huge, 
blind, indifferent Force that poisons the deep sea of Space 
with an ever-productive spawn of wasted Life 1 Anon I 
have flouted my own despair, and have consoled myself 
with the old wise maxim that was found inscribed on the 
statue of a smiling god some centuries ago . . ‘Enjoy 
your lives, ye passing tribes of men . . . take pleasure in 
folly, for this is the only wisdom that avails! Happy is 
he whose days are filled with the delight of love an(J 
laughter, for there is nothing better found on earth, and 
whatsoever ye do, whether wise or foolish, the same End 
comes to all! ’ . . Is not this true philosophy, my Theos ? 
. . what can a man do better than enjoy?” 

“ Much depends on the particular form of enjoyment . .” 
responded Theos thoughtfully. “Some there are, for 
example, who might find their greatest satisfaction in the 
pleasures of the table,—others in the gratification of sen¬ 
sual desires and gross appetites,—are these to be left to 
follow their own devices, without any effort being made 
to raise them from the brute-level where they lie ? ^ 

“Why, in the name of all the gods, should they be 
raised?” demanded Sah-lflma impatiently—“If their 
choice is to grovel in mire, why ask them to dwell in a 
palace ?—They would not appreciate the change 1 ” 

“Again,” went on Theos—“there are others who arq 
only happy in the pursuit of wisdom, and the more they 
learn, the more they seek to know. One wonders, . . 
one cannot help wondering . . are their aspirations all in 
vain? . . and will the grave seal down their hopes for¬ 
ever ? ” 

Sah-lfima paused a moment before replying. 

“It seems so . . .” he said at last slowly and hesitat¬ 
ingly. . “And herein I find the injustice of the matter,— 
because however great may be the imagination and fer- 


ABDATE. 


841 

vor of a poet for instance, he never is able wholly to utter 
his thoughts. Half of them remain in embryo, like buds 
of flowers that never oome to bloom, . yet they are there , 
burning in the brain and seeming too vast of conception 
to syllable themselves into the common speech of mor¬ 
tals ! I have often marvelled why such ideas suggest 
themselves at all, as they can neither be written nor 
spoken, unless . .” and here his voice sank into a dreamy 
softness, “ unless indeed they are to be received as hints, 
. . foreshadowings . . of greater works destined for our 
saccomplishment, hereafter!” 

He was silent a minute’s space, and Theos, watchkig 
him wistfully, suddenly asked: 

“Wouldst thou be willing to live again, Sah-lAma, if 
such a thing could be ? ” 

“ Friend, I would rather never die! ”—responded the 
Laureate, half playfully, half seriously . . “ But . . if I 
were certain that death was no more than a sleep, from 
which I should assuredly awaken to another phase of ex¬ 
istence, . . I know well enough what I wmuld do! ” 

“What?” questioned Theos, his heart beginning to 
beat with an almost insufferable anxiety. 

“ I would live a different life now ! ” answered Sah-lftma 
steadily, looking his companion full in the eyes as he spoke, 
while a grave smile shadowed rather than lightened his 
features. “ I would begin at once, . . so that when the 
new Future dawned for me, I might not be haunted or 
tortured by the remembrance of a misspent Past! For 
if we are to believe in any everlasting things at all, we 
cannot shut out the fatal everlastingness of Memory! ” 
His words sounded unlike himself ... his voice was as 
the voice of some reproving angel speaking,—and Theos, 
listening, shuddered, he knew not why, and held his 
peace. 

“Never to be able to forget /” continued Sah-lftma in 
the same grave, sweet tone. . . “Never to lose sight of 
one’s own bygone wilful sins, . . this would be an im¬ 
mortal destiny too terrible to endure! For then, inexo¬ 
rable Retrospection would forever show us where we had 
missed the way, and how we had failed to use the chances 
given us, . . moreover, we might haply find ourselves 
surrounded , .” and his accents grew slower and more 
emphatic . . “ by strange phantoms of our own creating, 
who would aofc anew the drama of our obstinate past IN 


342 


ABB ATE. 


lies, perplexing us thereby into an anguish greater than 
mortal fancy can depict. Thus if we indeed possessed 
the positive foreknowledge of the eternal regeneration of 
our lives, ’twould be well to free them from all hindrance 
to perfection Acre,—here, while we are still conscious of 
Time and opportunity.” He paused, then went on in his 
customary gay manner: “ But fortunately we are not 
positive, nothing is certain, no truth is so satisfactorily 
demonstrated that some wiseacre cannot be found to 
disprove it, . . hence it happens my friend . . ” and his 
face assumed its wonted careless expression . . “ that we 
men whose common-sense is offended by priestly hypoc¬ 
risy and occult necromantic jugglery,—we, who perhaps 
in our innermost heart of hearts ardently desire to believe 
in a supreme Divinity and the grandly progressive Sub¬ 
lime Intention of the Universe, but who, discovering 
naught but ignoble Cant and Imposture everywhere, are 
incontinently thrown back on our own resources, . . hence 
it comes, I say, that we are satisfied to accept ourselves, 
each man in his own personality, as the Beginning and 
End of Existence, and to minister to that Absolute Self 
which after all concerns us most, and which will continue 
to engage our best service until . . . well!—until History 
can show us a perfectly Selfless Example, which, if human 
nature remains consistent with its own traditions, will 
assuredly never be ! ” 

This was almost more than Theos could bear, . . there 
was a tightening agony at his heart that made him long 
to cry out, to weep, or, better still, to fling himself on his 
knees and pray, . . pray to that far-removed mild Pres¬ 
ence, that “ Selfless Example ” who he knew had hallowed 
and dignified the world, and yet whose Holy and Beloved 
Name, he, miserable sinner, was unworthy to even re 
member! His suffering at the moment was so intense* 
that he fancied some reflection of it must be visible in his 
face. Sah-lfima, however, apparently saw nothing,—he 
stepped across the room, and out to the vine-shaded loggia, 
where he turned and beckoned his companion to his side* 

“ Come! ” he said, pushing his hair off his brows with 
a languid gesture, . . “ The afternoon wears onward, and 
the very heavens seem to smoke.with heat,—let us seek 
cooler air beneath the shade of yonder cypresses, whose 
dark-green boughs shut out the glaring sky. We’ll talk 
of love and poesy and tender things till sunset, , . I will 


AM* ATS, 


343 


recite to thee a ballad of mine that Niphr&ta loved,—’tis 
called ‘ An Idyl of Roses,’ . . and it will lighten this hot 
and heavy silence,' when even birds sleep, and butterflies 
drowse in the hollowed shelter of the arum-leaves. Come, 
wilt thou? . . To-night perchance we shall have little 
time for pleasant discourse ! ” 

As he spoke, Theos obediently went toward him with 
the dazed sensations of one under the influence of mesmer¬ 
ism, . . the dazzling face and luminous eyes of the Lau¬ 
reate exercised over him an indescribable yet resistless 
authority,—and it was certain that, wherever Sah-ltima 
led the way, he was bound to follow. Only, as he mechan¬ 
ically descended from the terrace into the garden, and linked 
his arm within that of his companion, he was conscious of 
a vague feeling of pity for himself . . pity that he should 
have dwindled into such a nonentity, when Sah-lflma was 
so renowned a celebrity, . . pity too that he should have 
somehow never been able to devise anything original in 
the Art of Poetry! 

This last was evident, . for he knew already that the 
“Idyl of Roses” Sah-lftma purposed reciting could be 
no other than what he had fancied was his “ Idyl of Roses ” 
. . a poem he had composed, or rather had plagiarized in 
some mysterious fashion before he had even dreamt of the 
design of “ JVourhalma ”... However he had become in 
part resigned to the peculiar position he occupied,—he 
was just a little sorry for himself, and that was all. Even 
as the parted spirit of a dead man might hover ruthfully 
above the grave of its perished mortal body, so he com¬ 
passionated his own forlorn estate, and heaved a passing 
sigh of regret, not only for all he once had been , but also 
for all he coidd never be ! 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

IN THE TEMPLE OF NAGAYA. 

The hours wore on with stealthy rapidity,—but the two 
friends, reclining together under a deep-branched canopy 
of cypress-boughs, paid little or no heed to the flight of 
time. The heat in the garden was intense—the grass was 
dry and brittle as though it had been scorched by passing 
flames^—and a singularly profound stillness reigned every- 


bte 


ARB ATE. 


where, there being no wind to stir the faintest rustle 
among the foliage. Lying lazily upon his back, with his 
arms clasped above his head, Theos looked dreamily up at 
the patches of blue sky seen between the dark-green 
gnarled stems and listened to the measured cadence of 
the Laureate’s mellow voice as he recited with much 
tenderness the promised poem. 

Of course it was perfectly familiar,—the lines were 
precisely the same as those which he, Theos, remembered 
to have written out, thinking them his own, in an old 
manuscript book he had left at home. “ At-home! ” . . 
Where was that ? It must be a very long way off! . . . 
He half-closed his eyes,— a sense of delightful drowsiness 
was upon him, . . the rise and fall of his friend’s rhyth¬ 
mic utterance soothed him into a languid peace, . . the 
“ Idyl of Roses ” was very sweet and musical, and, though 
he knew it of old, he heard it now with special satis¬ 
faction, inasmuch as, it being no longer his, he was at 
liberty to bestow upon it that full measure of admiration 
which he felt it deserved! 

Yet every now and then his thoughts wandered,—and 
though he anxiously strove to concentrate his attention on 
the lovely stanzas that murmured past his ears like the 
gentle sound of waves flowing beneath the mesmerism of 
the moon, his brain was in a continual state of ferment, 
and busied itself with all manner of vague suggestions to 
which he could give no name. 

A great weariness weighed down his spirit—a dim con¬ 
sciousness of the futility of all ambition and all endeavor 
—he was haunted, too, by the sharp hiss of Lysia’s voice 
when she had said, “ Kill Sah-ldma /”.... Her look, 
her attitude, her murderous smile, troubled his 
memory and made him ill at ease,—the thing she 
had thus demanded at his hands seemed more 
monstrous than if she had bidden him kill himself! For 
there had been one moment, when, mastered by her 
beauty and the force of his own passion, he would have 
killed himself had she requested it ... . but to kill 
his adored, his beloved friend! . . ah no! not for a 
thousand sorceress-queens as fair as she! 

He drew a long breath, ... an irresistible desire for 
rest came over him, . . the air was heavy and warm and 
fragrant,—his companion’s dulcet accents served as a 
lullaby to his tired mind,—it seemed a long time since he 


ARDATH. 


345 


had enjoyed n pieasant slumber, for the previous night 
he had not slept; at all. Lower and lower drooped his 
aching lids, . . he was almost beginning to slip away 
slowly into a blissful unconsciousness, . . when all at 
once Sah-lfima ceased reciting, and a harsh, brazen clang 
of bells echoed through the silence, storming to and fro 
with a violent, hurried uproar suggestive of some sudden 
alarm. He sprang to his feet, rubbing his eyes,—Sah- 
lfima rose also, a slightly petulant expression on his 
face. 

“Canst thou do no better than sleep”—he queried 
complainingly, “ when thou art privileged to listen to an 
immortal poem ?” 

Impulsively Theos caught his hand and pressed it 
fervently. 

“ Nay, dost thou deem me so indifferent, my noble 
friend ? ” he cried. . “ Thou art mistaken, for though 
perchance mine eyes were closed, my ears were open; I 
heard thy every word,—I loved thy every line! What 
dost thou need of praise? .thou, who canst do naught 
but work which, being perfect, is beyond all criticism ! ” 

Sah-lfima smiled, well satisfied, and the little lines of 
threatening ill-humor vanished from his countenance. 

“ Enough ! ” he said . . “ I know that thou dost truly 
honor me above all poets, and that thou wouldst not will¬ 
ingly offend. Hearest thou how great a clamor the 
rimrers of the Temple make to-night ?—’tis but the sun¬ 
set chime, . . yet one would think they were pealing 
forth an angry summons to battle.” 

“ Already sunset! ” exclaimed Theos, surprised . . 
“Why, it seems scarce a minute since, that we came 
hither! ” 

“ Aye !—such is the magic charm of poesy ! ” rejoined 
Sah-lfima complacently . . “ It makes the hours flit like 
moments, and long days seemed but short hours! . . 
Nevertheless ’tis time we were within doors and at sup¬ 
per,—for if we start not soon for the Temple, ’twill be 
difficult to gain an entrance, and I, at any rate, must be 
early in my place beside the King.” 

He heaved a short, impatient sigh,—and as he spoke, 
all Theos’s old misgivings came rushing back upon him 
and in full force, filling him with vague sorrow, uneasiness, 
fear. But he knew how useless it was 'to try and impart 
any of his inward forebodings to Sah-lfima,—Sah-lfima, 


who bad so li^ntly explained ^ysia’s treacherous conduct to 
his own entire satisfaction,^ . Sail-Mma, on whom neither 
the prophecies oi JuiO^rulnor cheYarioua disastrous events 
of the day had taken any permanent effect, . . while no 
attempt could now he made to deter him from attending 
the Sacrificial Service in the Temple, seeing he had been 
so positively commanded thither by Lysia, through the 
medium of the priest Zdl* 

Feeling bitterly his own incompetency to exercise any 
protective influence on the fate of his companion, Theos 
said nothing, but silently followed him, as he thrust aside 
the drooping cypress houghs and made his way out !o 
more open ground, his lithe, graceful figure looking even 
more brilliant and phantom-like than ever, contrasted 
with the deep green gloom spread about him by the hoary 
moss-covered trees that were as twisted and grotesque in 
shape as a group of fetich idols. As he bent back the 
last branchy barrier however, and stepped into the full 
light, he stopped short,—and, uttering a loud exclamation, 
lifted his hand and pointed westward, his dark eyes dilat¬ 
ing with amazement and awe. 

Theos at once came swiftly up beside him, and looKed 
where he looked, . . . what a scene of terrific splendor 

he beheld!.Right across the horizon, that 

glistened with a pale green hue like newly frozen water, 
a cloud, black as the blackest midnight, lay heavy and 
motionless, in form resembling an enormous leaf, fringed 
at the edges with tremulous lines of gold. 

This nebulous mass was absolutely stirless, . . it ap¬ 
peared as though it had been thrown, a ponderous weight, 
into the vault of heaven, and having fallen, ftiere purposed 
to remain. Ever and anon beamy threads of lightning 
played through it luridly, veining it with long, arrowy 
flashes of orange and silver,—while poised immediately 
above it was the sun, looking like a dull scarlet seal, . . 
a ball of dim fire destitute of rays. 

On all sides the sky was crossed by wavy flecks of 
pearl and sudden glimpses as of burning topaz,—and 
down toward the earth drooped a thin azure fog,—filmy 
curtain, through which the landscape took the strangest 
tints and unearthly flushes of color. A moment,—and 
the spectral sun dropped suddenly into the lower darkness, 
leaving behind it a glare of gold and green,—lowering 
purple shadows crept over across the heavens, darkening 



ARDATH. 


347 


them as smoke darkens flame,—but the huge cloud, pal¬ 
pitating with lightning, moved not at all nor changed its 
shape by so much as a hair’s breadth, . . it appeared like 
ft vast pall spread out in readiness for the solemn state- 
burial of the world. 

Fascinated by the aspect of the weird sky-phenomenon, 
Theos was at the same time curiously impressed by a 
sense of its unreality , . . indeed he found himself con¬ 
sidering it with the calm attentiveness of one who is 
brought face to face with a remarkable picture effectively 
painted. This peculiar sensation, however, was, like 
many others of his experience, very transitory, . . it 
passed, and he watched the lightnings come and go with 
a certain hesitating fear mingled with wonder. Sah-Klma 
was the first to speak. 

“ Storm at last! ” . .he said, forcing a smile though his 
face was unusually pale,—“It has threatened us all 
day. . ’twill break before the night is over. How sullenly 
yonder heavens frown! . . they have quenched the sun 
in their sable darkness as though it were a beaten foe! 
This will-seem an ill sign to those who worship him as a 
god,—for truly he doth appear to have withdrawn him¬ 
self in haste and anger. By my soul! ’Tis a dull and 
ominous eve! ” . . and a slight shudder ran through his 
delicate frame, as he turned toward the white-pillared 
loggia garlanded with its climbing vines, roses, and 
passion-flowers, through which there now floated a dim 
golden, suffused radiance reflected from lamps lit 
within, . . “ I would the night were past and that the 
new day had come! ” 

With these words, he entered the house, Theos accom¬ 
panying him, and together they went at once to the 
banqueting-hall. There they supped royally, served by 
silent and attentive slaves,—they themselves, feeling 
mutually depressed, yet apparently not wishing to com¬ 
municate their depression one to the other, conversed but 
little. After the repast was finished, they set forth on 
foot to the Temple, Sah-lfima informing his companion, 
as they went, that it was against the law to use any 
chariot or other sort of conveyance to go to the place of 
worship, the King himself being obliged to dispense with 
his sumptuous car on such occasions, and to walk thither 
as unostentatiously as any one of his poorest subjects. 

“An excellent rule!” . . observed Theos reflectively,— 


348 


Alt DA TH. 


“ For the pomp and glitter of an earthly potentate’s dis¬ 
play assorts ill with the homage he intends to offer to 
the Immortals,—and Kings are no more than commoners 
in the sight of an all-supreme Divinity.” 

“ True, if there were an all-supreme Divinity ! ” rejoined 
Sah-lftma dryly,—“ But in the present state of well-found¬ 
ed doubt regarding the existence of any such omnipotent 
personage, thinkest thou there is a monarch living, who 
is sincerely willing to admit the possibility of any power 
superior to himself ? Not Zephoranim, believe me ! . . 
his enforced humility on all occasions of public religious 
observance serves him merely as a new channel wherein 
to proclaim his pride. Certes, in obedience to the Priests, 
or rather let us say in obedience to the High Priestess, 
he paces the common foot-path in company with the 
common folk, uncrowned and simply clad,—but what 
avails this affectation of meekness ? All know him for 
the King—all make servile way for him,—all flatter 
him! . . and his progress to the Temple resembles as 
much a triumphal procession as though he were mounted 
in his chariot and returning from some wondrous victory. 
Besides, humility in my opinion is more a weakness than 
a virtue, . . and even granting it were a virtue, it is not 
possible to Kings,—not as long as people continue to 
fawn on royalty like grovelling curs, and lick the sceptred 
hand that often loathes their abject touch.” 

He spoke with a certain bitterness and impatience as 
though he were suffering from some inward nervous 
irritation, and Theos, observing this, prudently made no 
attempt to continue the conversation. They were just then 
passing down a narrow, rather dark street, lined on both 
sides by lofty buildings of quaint and elaborate architect¬ 
ure. Long, gloomy shadows had gathered in this par¬ 
ticular spot, where for a short space the silence was so 
intense that one could almost hear one’s own heart beat. 
Suddenly a yellowish-green ray of light flashed across the 
pavement, and lo! the upper rim of the moon peered 
above the house-tops, looking strangely large and rosily 
brilliant, . . the air seemed all at once to grow suffocating 
and sulphurous, and between whiles there came the faint 
plashing sound of water lapping against stone with a 
monotonous murmur as of continuous soft whispers. 

The vast silence, the vast night, were full of a solemn 
weirdness,—the moon, curiously magnified to twice her 


ABDATR. 


349 


ordinary size, soared higher and higher, firing the lofty 
solitudes of heaven with long, shooting radiations of rose 
and green, while still in the purple hollow of the horizon 
lay that immense, immovable Cloud, nerved as it were 
with living lightning which leaped incessantly from its 
centre like a thousand swords drawn and re-drawn from 
as many scabbards. 

Presently the deep booming noise of a great bell smote 
heavily on the stillness, . . a sound that Theos, oppressed 
by the weight of unutterable forebodings, welcomed with a 
vague sense of relief, while Sah-luma, hearing it, quick¬ 
ened his pace. They soon reached the end of the street, 
which terminated in a spacious quadrangular court 
guarded on all sides by gigantic black statues, and quickly 
crossing this place, which was entirely deserted, they 
came out at once into a dazzling blaze of light, . . . the 
Temple of Nagaya in all its stately magnifience towered 
before them, a stupendous pile of marvellously delicate 
architecture so fine as to seem like lace-work rather than 
stone. 

It was lit up from base to summit with glittering lamps 
of all colors, . . the twelve revolving stars on its twelve tall 
turrets cast forth wide beams of penetrating radiance into 
the deepening darkness of the night, . . aloft in its top¬ 
most crown of pinnacles swung the prayer-commanding 
bell, . . while the enormous crowds swarming thick 
about it gave it the appearance of a brilliant Pharos set 
in the midst of a surging sea. The steps leading up to it 
were strewn ankle-deep with flowers, . . the doors stood 
open, and a thunderous hum of solemn music vibrated in 
wave-like pulsations through the heavy, heated air. 

Half blinded by the extreme effulgence, and confused 
by the jostling to and fro of a multitude immeasurably 
greater than any he had ever seen or imagined, Theos 
instinctively stretched out his hand in the helpless fash¬ 
ion of one not knowing whither next to turn, . . Sah- 
lftma immediately caught it in his own, and hurried him 
along vvithout saying a word. 

How they managed to glide through the close ranks 
of pushing, pressing people, and effect an entrance he 
never knew,—but when he recovered from his momen¬ 
tary dazed bewilderment, he found himself inside the 
Temple, standing near a pillar of finely fluted white mar¬ 
ble that shot up like the stem pf a palm-tree and lost its 


350 


ABBA TB* 


final point in the dim yet sparkling splendor of the im¬ 
mense dome above. Lights twinkled everywhere,—there 
was the odor of faint perfumes mingled with the fresher 
fragrance of flowers,—there were distant glimpses of 
jewelled shrines, and the leering faces of grotesque idols 
clothed in draperies of amber, purple, and green,—and 
between the multitudinous columns that ringed the superb 
fane with snowy circles, one within the other, hung glit¬ 
tering lamps, set with rare gems and swinging by long 
chains of gold. 

But the crowning splendor of the whole was concen¬ 
trated on the place of the secret Inner Shrine. There 
an Arch of pale-blue fire spanned the dome from left to 
right, . . there, from huge bronze vessels mounted on 
tall tripods the smoke of burning incense arose in thick 
and odorous clouds,—there children clad in white, and 
wearing garlands of vivid scarlet blossoms, stood about 
in little groups as still as exquisitely modelled statuettes, 
their small hands folded, and their eyes downcast, . . 
there, the steps were strewn with branches of palm, 
flowering oleander, rose-laurel, and olive-sprays,—but the 
Sanctuary itself was not visible. 

Before that Holy of Holies hung the dazzling folds of 
the “Silver Veil,” a curtain of the most wonderfully 
woven silver tissue, that seen in the flashing azure light 
of the luminous arch above it, resembled nothing so much 
as a suddenly frozen sheet of foam. Across it was em¬ 
blazoned in large characters: 

I AM THE PAST, THE PRESENT, THE FUTURE, 

THE MIGHT-HAVE-BEEN, AND THE SHALL-NOT-BE, 

THE EVER, AND THE NEVER, 

NO MORTAL KNOWETH MY NAME. 

As Theos with some difficulty, owing to the intense brill¬ 
iancy of the Veil, managed to decipher ’ these words, he 
heard a solitary trumpet sounded,—a clear-blown note 
that echoed itself many times among the lofty arches be¬ 
fore it finally floated into silence. Recognizing this as an 
evident signal for some new and important phase in the 
proceedings, he turned his eyes away from the place of 
the Shrine, and looking round the building was surprised 
to see how completely the vast area was filled with crowd* 


1 is. 


851 

upon crowds of silent and expectant people. It seemed as 
though not the smallest wedge could have been inserted be¬ 
tween the shoulders of one man and another, yet where he 
stood with Sah-lftma there was plenty of room. The reason 
of this however was soon apparent,—they were in the place 
reserved for the King and the immediate officers of the 
ltoyal Household,—and scarcely had the sweet vibration 
of that clear trumpet-blast died away, when Zephor&nim 
himself appeared, walking slowly and majestically in the 
midst of a select company of his nobles and courtiers. 

He wore the simple white garb of an ordinary citizen 
of Al-Kyris, together with a silver belt and plain-sheathed 
dagger, . . . not a jewel relieved the classic severity of 
his costume, and not even the merest fillet of gold in his 
rough dark hair denoted his royal rank. But the pride of 
precedence spoke in his flashing eyes,—the arrogance of 
authority in the self-conscious poise of his figure and 
haughtiness of his step,—his brows were knitted in some¬ 
thing of a frown, and his face looked pale and slightly 
careworn. He spied out Sali-lftma at once and smiled 
kindly,—there was not a trace of coldness in his manner 
toward his favored minstrel, and Theos noted this with a 
curious sense of sudden consolation and encouragement. 
‘‘Why should I have feared Zephoranim ?” he thought. 
“ Sah-lfima has no greater friend, . . except myself! The 
King would be the last person in the world to do him any 
injury! ” 

Just then a magnificent burst of triumphal music rolled 
through the Temple,—the music of some mighty instru¬ 
ment, organ-like in sound, but several tones deeper than 
the grandest organ ever made, mingled with children’s 
voices singing. The King seated himself on a cushioned 
chair directly in front of the Silver Veil, . . . Sah-lfima 
took a place at his right hand, giving Theos a low bench 
close beside him, while the various distinguished person¬ 
ages who had attended Zephoranim disposed themselves 
indifferently wherever they could find standing-room, 
only keeping as near to their monarch as they were able 
to clo in the extreme pressure of so vast a congregation. 

For now every available inch of space was occupied,— 
as far as eye could see there were rows upon rows of men 
and white-veiled women, . . Theos imagined there must 
have been more then five thousand people present. On 
went the huge pulsations of melody, surging through the 


852 


ARDATH. 


incense-laden air like waves thudding incessantly on a 
rocky shore, and presently out of a side archway near the 
Sanctuary-steps came with slow and gliding noiselessness a 
band of priests, walking two by two, and carrying branches 
of palm. These were all clad in purple and crowned with 
ivy-wreaths,—they marched sedately, keeping their eyes 
lowered, while their lips moved constantly, as though' 
they muttered inaudible incantations. Waving their 1 
palm-boughs to and fro, they paced along past the King 
and down the centre aisle of the Temple,—then turning, / 
they came back again to the lowest step of the Shrine and J 
there they all prostrated themselves, while the children; 
who stood near the incense-burners flung fresh perfumes 
on the glowing embers and chanted the following recita¬ 
tive: 

“ O Nagaya, great, everlasting and terrible 1 
Thou who dost wind thy coils of wisdom into the heart 1 
Thou, whose eyes, waking and sleeping, do behold all things ! 

Thou who art the joy of the Sun and the Master of Virgins 1 
Hear us, w T e beseech thee, when we call upon thy name 1” 

Their young treble voices were clear and piercing, and. 
pealed up to the dome to fall again like the drops of dis¬ 
tinct round melody from a lark’s singing-throat,—and 
when they ceased there came a short impressive pause. 
The Silver Veil quivered from end to end as though 
swayed by a faint wind, and the flaming Arch above 
turned from pale blue to a strange shimmering green. 
Then, in mellow unison, the kneeling priests intoned: 

“ O thou who givest words of power to the dumb mouth of the 
soul in Hades ; hear us, Nagaya ! 

O thou who openest the grave and givest peace to the heart; plead 
for us, Nagaya ! 

O thou who art companion of the Sun and controller of the East and 
of the West ; comfort us, Nagaya I 

Here they ended, and the children began again, not to ' 
chant but to sing . . a strange and tristful tune, wilder { 
than any that vragrant winds could play on the strings .1 
of an seolian lyre: 

“ O Virgin of Virgins, Holy Maid, to what shall we resemble thee ? 

Chaste Daughter of the Sun, how shall we praise thy peerless 
beauty ! 

Thou art the Gate of the House of Stars !—thou art the first of the 
Seven Jewels of Nagaya ! 

Thou dost wield the sceptre of ebony, and the Eye of llaphon be¬ 
holds thee 'with love and contentment 1 


ABDATH. 353 

Thou art the Chiefest of Women, . thou hast the secrets of earth 
and heaven, thou knowest the dark mysteries ! 

Hail, Lysia ! Queen of the Hall of Judgment ! 

Hail, pure Pearl in the Sea of the Sun’s glory ! 

Declare unto us, we beseech thee, the Will of Nagaya l” 

They closed this canticle softly and slowly, . . then 
flinging themselves prone, they pressed their faces to the 
earth, . . and again the glittering Veil waved to and fro 
suggestively, while Theos, his heart beating fast, watched 
its shining woof with straining eyes and a sense of suffo¬ 
cation in his throat, . . what ignorant fools, what mad 
barbarians, what blind blasphemers were these people, he 
indignantly thought, who could thus patiently hear the 
praise of an evil woman like Lysia publicly proclaimed 
with almost divine honors ! 

Did they actually intend to worship her, he wondered ? 
If so, he at any rate would never bend the knee to one 
so vile! He might have done so once, perhaps, . . but 
now . . ! At that instant a flute-like murmur of melody 
crept upward as it seemed from the ground, with a plaintive 
whispering sweetness like the lament of some exiled fairy, 
—so exquisitely tender and pathetic, and yet withal so 
heart-stirring and passionate, that, despite himself, he 
listened with a strange, swooning sense of languor steal¬ 
ing insidiously over him,—a dreamy lassitude, that while 
it made him feel enervated and deprived of strength, was 
still not altogether unpleasing, ... a faint sigh escaped 
his lips,—and he kept his gaze fixed on the Silver Veil as 
pertinaciously as though behind it lay the mystery of his 
soul’s ruin or salvation. 

How the light flashed on its shimmering folds like the 
rippling phosphorescence on southern seas ! . . as green 
and clear and brilliant as rays reflected from thousands 
and thousands of glistening emeralds ! . . And that haunt¬ 
ing, sorrowful, weird music! . . How it seemed to eat into 
his heart and there waken a bitter remorse combined 
with an equally bitter despair! 

Once more the Veil moved, and this time it appeared 
vjo inflate itself in the fashion of a sail caught by a sudden 
freeze,—then it began to part in the middle very slowly 
?'id without sound. Further and further back on each 
3 ide it gradually receded, and . . like a lily disclosed 
between folding leaves—a Figure, white, wonderful and 
angelically fair, shone out, the centre jewel of the stately 

28 i-- 


8o4 


ahjoath. 


shrine,—a shrine whose immense carven pillars, grotesque 
idols, bronze and gold ornaments, jewelled lamps and daz¬ 
zling embroideries, only served as a sort of neutral-tinted 
background to intensify with a more lustrous charm 
the statuesque loveliness revealed! O Lysia, wwvirgined 
Priestess of the Sun and Kagaya, how gloriously art thou 
arrayed in sin! . . O singular Sweetness whose end must 
needs be destruction, was ever woman fairer than 
thou! . . O love, love, lost in the dead Long-Ago, and 
drowned in the uttermost darkness of things evil, wilt 
thou drag my soul with thee again into everlasting night! 

Thus Theos inwardly raved, without any real compre¬ 
hension of his own thoughts, but only stricken anew by a 
feverish passion of mingled love and hatred as he stared 
on the witching sorceress whose marvellous beauty was 
such wonder and torture to his eyes, . . what mattered 
it to him that King, Laureate, and people had all pros¬ 
trated themselves before her in reverent humility ? . he 
knew her nature, . . he had fathomed her inborn wicked¬ 
ness, . . and though his senses were attracted by her, his 
spirit loathingly repelled her, . . he therefore remained 
seated stiffly upright, watching her with a sort of passive, 
immovable intentness. As she now appeared before him, 
her loveliness was absolutely and ideally perfect,—she 
looked the embodiment of all grace,—the model of all 
chastity. 

She stood quite still, . . her hands folded on her breast,. 
her head slightly lifted, her dark eyes upturned, . . her 
unbound black hair streamed over her shoulders in loose 
glossy waves, and above her brows her diadem of ser¬ 
pents’ heads sparkled like a coronal of flame. Her robe 
was white, made of some silky shining stuff that glistened 
with soft pearly hues; it was gathered about her waist 
by a twisted golden girdle. Her arms were bare, decked 
as before with the small jewelled snakes that coiled up¬ 
ward from wrist to shoulder,—and when after a brief 
pause she unfolded her hands and raised them with a 
slow, majestic movement above her head, the great Sym¬ 
bolic Eye flared from her bosom like a darting coal, seem¬ 
ing to turn sinister glances on all sides as though on the 
search for some suspected foe. 

Fortunately no one appeared to notice Theos’s de¬ 
liberate non-observance of the homage due to her,— no 
one except . . Lysia herself. She met the open defiance, 


ARDATH. 


365 


scorn, and reluctant admiration of his glance, . . and a 
cold smile dawned on her features, . a smile more dread¬ 
ful in its very sweetness than any frown, . then, turning 
away her beautiful, fathomless, slumberous eyes and 
still keeping her arms raised, she lifted up her voice, a 
voice mellow as a golden flute, that pierced the silence 
with a straight arrow of pure sound, and chanted : 

“ Give glory to the Sun, 0 ye people l for his Light doth 
iUumine your darkness ! ” 

And the murmur of the mighty crowd surged back in 
answer: 

“ We give him glory I ” 

Here came a brief clash of brazen bells, and when the 
clamor ceased, Lysia continued: 

“ Give glory to the Moon, O ye people ! . . for she is the 
servant of the Sun and the Ruler of the House of 
Sleep/” 

Again the people responded ; 

“ We give her glory / ’ . . and again the bells jangled 
tempestuously. 

“ Give glory to Hagdya, 0 ye people! for he alone can 
turn aside the wrath of the Immortals ! ” 

“ We give him glory! ” . . rejoined the multitude, — 
and “ We give him glory! seemed to be shouted high 
•among the arches of the Temple with a strange sound as of 
the mocking laughter of devils. 

This preliminary 0 Vv,r, there came out of unseen doors 
on both sides of uhe Sanctuary twenty priests in com¬ 
panies of ten each ; ten advancing from the left, ten from 
the right. These were clad in flowing garments of 
carnation-colored silk, heavily bordered with gold, and 
the leader of the right-hand group was the priest Zel. 
His demeanor was austere and dignified, ... he carried a 
square cushion covered in black, on which lay a long, 
thin cruel-looking knife with a jewelled hilt. The chief 
of the priests, who stood on the left, bore a very tall and 
massive staff of polished ebony, which he solemnly pre¬ 
sented to the High Priestess, who grasped it firmly in 
one slight hand and allowed it to rest steadily on the 
ground, while its uppermost poiftit reached far above her 
head. 

Then followed the strangest, weirdest scene that ever 
the pen of poets or brush of painter devised, ... a march 
round and round the Temple of all the priests, bearing 


356 


ARDATH. 


lighted flambeaux and singing in chorus a wild Litany,— 
a confused medley of supplications to the Sun and 
Kagaya, which, accompanied as it was by the discordant 
beating drums and the clanging of bells, had an evidently ^ 
powerful effect on the minds of the assembled populace, 
for presently they also joined in the maddening chant, 
and growing more and more possessed by the contagious 
fever of fanaticism, began to howl and shriek and clap 
their hands furiously, creating a frightful din suggestive 
of some fiendish clamor in hell. 

Theos, half deafened by the horrible uproar, as well as 
roused to an abnormal pitch of restless excitement, 
looked round to see how Sah-Ktma comported himself. 
He was sitting quite still, in a perfectly composed attitude, 
—a faint, derisive smile played on his lips, . . his profile, 
as it just then appeared, had the firmness and the pure 
soft outline of a delicately finished cameo, . . his splendid 
eyes now darkened, now lightened with passion, as he 
gazed at Lysia, who, all alone in the centre of the Shrine, 
held her ebony staff as perpendicularly erect as though it 
were a tree rooted fathoms deep in earth, keeping her¬ 
self too as motionless as a figure of frozen snow. 

And the King? . . what of him? . . Glancing at that 
bronze-like brooding countenance, Theos was startled 
and at the same time half fascinated by its expression. 
Such a mixture of tigerish tenderness, servile idolatry, 
intemperate desire, and craven fear he had never seen 
delineated on the face of any human being. In the black 
thirsty eyes there was a look that spoke volumes,—a look 
that betrayed what the heart concealed,—and reading that 
featured emblazonment of hidden guilt, Theos knew 
beyond all doubt that the rumors concerning the High 
Priestess and the King were true, . . that the dead 
Khosrul had spoken rightly, . . that Zephoranim loved 
Lysia! .... Love? . . it seemed too tame a word for 
the pent-up fury of passion that visibly and violently con¬ 
sumed the man! Wliat would be the result ? . . . . 

When the High Priestess 

Is the King’s mistress 

Then fall Al-Kyris I ” 

These foolish doggerel lines! . . why did they suggest 
themselves ? . . they meant nothing. The question did 
not concern Al-Kyris at all, — let the city stand or fall as 



AEBATH. 


357 


it list, who cared, so long as S ah-Kim a escaped injury! 
Such, at least, was the tenor of Theos’s thoughts, as he 
rapidly began to calculate certain contingencies that now 
seemed likely to occur. If, for instance, the King were 
made aware of Sah-lhma’s intrigue with Lysia, would not 
his rage and jealousy exceed all bounds ? . . and if, on the 
i other hand, Sah-lftma were convinced of the King’s pas¬ 
sion for the same fatally fair traitress, would not his 
wrath and injured self-love overbear all loyalty and pru¬ 
dence ? 

And between the two powerful rivals who thus by 
stealth enjoyed her capricious favors, what would Lysia’s 
own decision be?—Like a loud hissing in his ears, he 
heard again the murderous command,—a command which 
was half a menace : “ Kill Sah-Mma /” 

Faint shudders as of icy cold ran through him,—he 
nerved himself to meet some deadly evil, though he could 
not guess what that evil might be,—he was willing to 
throw away all the past that haunted him, and cut off all 
hope of a future, provided he could only baffle the snares 
of the pitiless beauty to whom the torture of men was an 
evident joy, and rescue his beloved and gifted friend from 
her perilous attraction ! Making a strong effort to mas¬ 
ter the inward conflict of fear and pain that tormented 
him, he turned his attention anew to the gorgeous cere¬ 
mony that was going on, . . the march of the priests had 
come to an abrupt end. They stood now on each side of 
the Shrine, divided in groups of equal numbers, tossing 
their flambeaux around and above them to the measured 
ringing of bells. At every upward wave of these flaring 
torches, a tongue of fire leaped aloft, to instantly break 
and descend in a sparkling shower of gold,—the effect of 
this was wonderful in the extreme, as by the dexterous 
way in which the flames were flung forth, it appeared to 
the spectator’s eyes as though a luminous Snake were 
twisting and coiling itself to and fro in mid-air. 

All loud music ceased, . . the multitude calmed down by 
degrees and left off their delirious cries of frenzy or rapt¬ 
ure, . . there was nothing heard but a monotonous chanting 
in undertone, of which not a syllable was distinctly intelli¬ 
gible. Then from out a dark portal unperceived in the 
shadowed gloom of a curtained niche, there advanced a 
procession of young girls,—fifty in all, clad in pure white 
and closely veiled. 


358 


AJRDATH. 


They carried small citherns, and arriving in front of the 
shrine, they knelt down in a semicircle, and very gently 
began to strike the short, responsive strings. The mur¬ 
mur of a lazy rivulet among whispering reeds, . . the 
sighing suggestions of leaves ready to fall in autumn,— 
the low, languid trilling of nightingales just learning to 
sing,—any or all these might be said to resemble the dul¬ 
cet melody they played; while every delicate arpeggio, 
every rippling chord was muffled with a soft pressure of 
their hands ere the sound had time to become vehement. 
This elf-like harping continued for a short interval, dur¬ 
ing which the priests, gathering in a ring round a huge 
bronze font-shaped vessel hard by, dipped their flambeaux 
therein and suddenly extinguished them. 

At the same moment the lights in the body of the 
Temple were all lowered, . . . only the Arch spanning 
the Shrine blazed in undiminished brilliancy, its green 
tint appearing more intense in contrast with the sur¬ 
rounding deepening shadow. And now with a harsh 
clanging noise as of the turning of heavy bolts and keys, 
the back of the Sanctuary parted asunder in the fashion of 
a revolving double doorway,—and a golden grating was 
disclosed, its strong glistening bars welded together like 
knotted ropes and wrought with marvellous finish and 
solidity. Turning toward this semblance of a prison-cell 
Lysia spoke aloud—her clear tones floating with mel¬ 
lifluous slowness above the half-hushed quiverings of the 
cithern-clioir: 

“ Come forth, O Nagaya, thou who didst slumber in the bosom of 
Space ere ever the world was made ! 

“ Come forth, O Nagaya, thou who didst behold the Sun born out 
of Chaos, and the Earth enriched with ever-producing life ! 

“Come forth, O Nagaya, Friend of the gods and the people, and 
comfort us with the Divine Silence of thy Wisdom supernal I ” 

While she pronounced these words, the golden grating 
asoended gradually inch by inch, with the steady clank as 
of the upward winding of a chain,—and when she ceased, 
there came a mysterious, rustling, slippery sound, sug¬ 
gestive of some creeping thing forcing its way through 
wet and tangled grass, or over dead leaves, . . one in¬ 
stant more, and a huge Serpent—a species of python some 
ten feet in length—glided through the round aperture 
made by the lifted bars, and writhed itself slowly along 
the marble pavement straight to where Lysia stood. 


ARDATH. 


359 


Once it stopped, curving back its glistening body in a 
strange loop as though in readiness to spring—but it soon 
resumed its course, and arrived at the High Priestess’s 
feet. There, its whole frame trembled and glowed with 
extraordinary radiance, . . the prevailing color of its 
skin was creamy white, marked with countless rings and 
scaly bright spots of silver, purple, and a peculiar livid 
blue,—and all these tints came into brilliant prominence, 
as it crouched before Lysia and twisted its sinuous neck to 
and fro with an evidently fawning and supplicatory gest¬ 
ure ; while she, keeping her sombre dark eyes fixed full 
upon it, moved not an inch from her position, but, ma¬ 
jestically serene, continued to hold the tall staff of ebony 
straight and erect as a growing palm. 

The cithern-playing had now the soothing softness of a 
mother’s lullaby to a tired child, and as the liquid notes 
quavered delicately on the otherwise deep stillness, the 
formidable reptile began to coil itself ascendingly round 
and round the ebony rod, . . higher and higher,—one 
glistening ring after another,—higher still, till its eyes 
were on a level with the “ Eye of Raphon ” that flamed 
on Lysia’s breast,. . there it paused in apparent reflective¬ 
ness, and seemed to listen to the slumberous strains that 
floated toward it in wind-like breaths of sound, . . then, 
starting afresh on its upward way, it carefully, and with 
almost human tenderness, avoided touching Lysia’s hand, 
which now rested on the staff between two thick twists 
of its body, . . . and finally it reached the top, where fully 
raising its crested head, it displayed the prismatic tints 
of its soft, restless, wavy throat, which was adorned 
furthermore by a flexible circlet of magnificent diamonds. 

Nothing more striking or more singular could Theos 
imagine than the scene now before him, . . the beautiful 
woman, still as sculptured marble, and the palpitating 
Snake coiled on that mast-like rod and uplifted above 
her,—while round the twain knelt the Priests, their faces 
covered in their robes, and from all parts of the Temple 
the loud shout arose : 

“All hail, Nagaya! ” 

« Praise , Honor , and Glory be unto thee forever and ever / ” 

Then it was that the proud King flung himself to earth 


360 


AIWATn. 


and kissed the dust in abject submission,—then Sah-lfima, 
carelessly complaisant, bent the knee and smiled to him¬ 
self mockingly as be performed the act of veneration, . . . 
then the enormous multitude with clasped hands and be¬ 
seeching looks fell down and worshipped the glittering 
beast of the field, whose shining, emerald-like, curiously 
sad eyes roved hither and thither with a darting yet mel¬ 
ancholy eagerness over all the people who called it Lord! 

To Theos’s imagination it looked a creature more 
sorrowful than fierce,—a poor charmed brute, that while 
netted in the drowsy woofs of its mistress Lysia’s mag¬ 
netic spell, seemed as though it dimly wondered why it 
should thus be raised aloft for the adoration of infatuated 
humankind. Its brilliant crest quivered and emitted little 
arrowy scintillations of lustre—the “god” was ill at ease 
in the midst of all his splendor, and two or three times 
bent back his gleaming neck as though desirous of 
descending to the level ground. 

But when these hints of rebellion declared themselves 
in the tremors running through the scaly twists of his 
body, Lysia looked up, and at once, compelled as it were 
by involuntary attraction, “ Nagaya the Divine ” looked 
down. The strange, subtle, mesmeric, sleepy eyes of the 
woman met the glittering green, mournful eyes of the 
snake,—and thus the two beautiful creatures regarded 
each other steadfastly and with an apparent vague sym¬ 
pathy, till the “ deity,” evidently overcome by a stronger 
will than his own, and resigning himself to the inevitable, 
twisted his radiant head back again to the top of the 
ebony staff, and again surveyed the kneeling crowds of 
worshippers. 

Presently his glistening jaws opened,—his tongue darted 
forth vibratingly,—and he gave vent to a low hissing 
sound, erecting and depressing his crest with extraordi¬ 
nary rapidity, so that it flashed like an aigrette of rare 
gems. Then, with slow and solemn step, the Priest Z&l 
advanced to the front of the Shrine, and spreading out his 
hands in the manner of one pronouncing a benediction, 
said loudly and with emphasis : 

“ Nagaya the Divine doth hear the prayers of his people ! 

“ Nagaya the Supreme doth accept the offered Sacrifice ! 

“ Bring forth the Victim ! ” 

The last words were spoken with stern authoritative* 


A It DA TIL 


361 


ness, and scarcely had they been uttered when the great 
entrance doors of the Temple flew open, and a procession of 
children appeared, strewing flowers and singing: 

“ O happy Bride, we bring thee unto joy and peace I 

“ To thee are opened the Palaces of the Air, 

“ The beautiful silent Palaces where the bright stars dwell 

“ O happy Bride of Nagaya ! how fair a fate is thine 1 ” 

Pausing, they flung wreaths and garlands among the 
people, and continued: 

“ O happy Bride 1 for thee are past all Sorrows and Sin, 

“ Thou shalt never know shame, or pain or grief or the weari¬ 
ness of teai*s; 

“For thee no husband shall prove false, no children prove un¬ 
grateful ; 

“ O happy Bride of Nagaya I how glad a fate is thine. 

“ O happy Bride ! when thou art wedded to the beautiful god, the 
god of Rest*— 

“ Thou shalt forget all trouble and dwell among sweet dreams for 
ever I 

“Thou art the blessed one, chosen for the love-embraces of 
Nag&ya I 

“ O happy Bride ! . . how glorious a fate is thine I ” 

Thus they sang in the soft, strange vowel-language of 
Al-Kyris, and tripped along with that innocent, unthink¬ 
ing gayety usual to such young creatures, up to the centre 
aisle toward the Sanctuary. They were followed by four 
priests in scarlet robes and closely masked,. . and walking 
steadfastly between these, came a slim girl clad in white, 
veiled from head to foot and crowned with a wreath of 
lotus lilies. All the congregation, as though moved by an 
impulse, turned to look at her as she passed,—but her 
features were not as yet discernible through the mist-like 
draperies that enfolded her. 

The singing children, always preceding her and scatter¬ 
ing flowers, having arrived at the steps of the Shrine, 
grouped themselves on either side,—and the red gar¬ 
mented Priests, after having made several genuflections to 
the glittering Python that now, with reared neck and 
quivering fangs, seemed to watch everything that was 
jgoing on with absorbed and crafty vigilance, proceeded to 
unveil the maiden martyr, and also to tie her slight hands 
behind her back by means of a knotted silver cord. Then 
in a firm yoice iciest proclaim^; 


862 


ABLATU. 


“ Behold the elected Bride of the Sun and the Divine Xag&ya I 
“ She bears away from the city the burden of your sins, O ye people* 
and by her death the gods are satisfied 1 
“ Rejoice greatly, for ye are absolved,—and by the Silver Veil and 
the Eye of Raphon we pronounce upon all here present the blessing 
of pardon and peace 1 ” 


As he spoke the girl turned round as though in obedL. 
enoe to some mechanical impulse, and fully confronted \ 
the multitude, . , . her pale, pure face, framed in a j 
shining aureole of rippling fair hair, floated before Theos’s « 
bewildered eyes like a vision seen indistinctly in a magio 
crystal, and he was for a moment uncertain of her iden¬ 
tity ; but quick as a flash Sah-lftma’s glance lighted upon 
her, and, with a cry of horror that sent desolate echoes 
through and through the arches of the Temple, he started 
from his seat, his arms outstretched, his whole frame 
convulsed and quivering. 

“ Niphrata ! . . . Niphrata ! . . .”. . and his rich voice 
shook with a passion of appeal, “ O ye gods! . . what 
mad, blind, murderous cruelty ! Zephoranim ! ” . . . and 
he turned impetuously on the astonished monarch : “As 
thou livest crowned King I say this maid is mine /. . . 
and in the very presence of Nagoya, I swear she shall not 
diel” 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

THE SACRIFICE. 

A solemn silence ensued. Consternation and wrath 
were depicted on every countenance. The Sacred Service 
was interrupted !. . . a defiance had been hurled as it were 
in the very teeth of the god Nagaya! . . and this horrible 
outrage to Religion and Law had been actually committed^ 
by the Laureate of the realm ! It was preposterous,. . . 
incredible ! . . . and the gaping crowds reached over each 1 
other’s shoulders to stare at the offender, pressing forward 
eager, wondering, startled faces, which to Theos looked 
far more spectral than real, seen in the shimmering green 
radiance that was thrown flickering upon them from the 
luminous Arch above the Altar. The priests stood still 
in speechless indignation,. . Lvsja moved not at all. 



ABBATB. 363 

nor raised her eyes ; only her lips parted in a very slight 
cold smile. 

Seized with mortal dread, Theos gazed helplessly at his 
reckless, beautiful poet friend, who with head erect and 
visage white as a waning moon, haughtily confronted his 
Sovereign and audaciously asserted his right to be heard, 
even in the Holy place of worship ! The King was the 
first to break the breathless stillness : his words came 
harshly from his throat, . . . and the great muscles in his 
neck seemed to swell visibly with his hardly controlled 
anger. 

“Peace! . . . Thou art suddenly distraught, Sah- 
l&ma!. he said, in half-smothered, fierce accents—“ How 
darest thou uplift thy clamorous tongue thus wantonly 
before Nagaya, and interrupt the progress of his Sacred 
Ritual ? . . check thy mad speeech ! . . if ever yonder 
maid were thine, ’tis certain she is thine no longer; . . . 
she hath offered herself, a voluntary sacrifice, and the 
gods are pleased to claim what thou perchance hast failed 
to value! ” 

For all answer, Sah-lftma flung himself desperately at 
the monarch’s feet. 

“ Zephoranim! ” he cried again . . . “ I tell thee she is 
mine! . . mine, as truly mine as Love can make her! Oh, 
she is chaster than lily-buds in her sweet body ! . . but in 
her spirit she is wedded—wedded to me, Sah-Klma, whom 
thou, O King, hast ever delighted to honor! And now 
must I kneel to thee in vain ?—thou whose victories I 
have sung, whose praises I have chanted in burning words 
that shall carry thy name forever with triumph, down to 
unborn generations ?. . Wilt thou become inglorious ? . . 
a warrior stricken strengthless by the mummeries of 
priestcraft,—the juggleries of a perishing creed ? Thou 
art the ruler of Al-Kyris,—thou and thou only ! Restore 
to me this innocent virgin-life that has scarcely yet begun 
to bloom ! . . speak but the word and she is saved ! . . . 
and her timely rescue shall add lustre to the record of thy 
noblest deeds! ” 

His matchless voice, full of passionate pulsations, ex¬ 
ercised for a moment a resistless influence and magnetic 
charm. The King’s lowering brows relaxed,—a 
gleam of pity passed like light across his countenance. 
Instinctively he extended his hand to raise Sah-lfima from 
his humble attitude, as though, even in his wrath, 


364 


ABB ATE. 


were conscious of the immense intellectual superiority 
of a great Poet to ever so great a King; and a thrill of 
involuntary compassion seemed at the same time to run 
sympathetically "through the vast congregation. Theos 
drew a quick breath of relief, and glanced at Niphrata, . . . 
how cold and unconcerned was her demeanor! . . Did 
she not hear Sah-lftma’s pleading in her behalf? . . . . 
No matter!—she would be saved, he thought, and all 
would yet be well! 

And truly it now appeared as if mercy, and not cruelty, 
were to be the order of the hour, . . for just then the 
Priest Zel, after having exchanged a few inaudible words 
with Lysia, advanced again to the front of the Shrine and 
spoke in distinct tones of forced gentleness and bland for¬ 
bearance : 

“ Hear me, O King, Princes and People! . . Whereas 
it has unhappily occurred, to the wonder and sorrow of 
many, that the holy Spouse of the divine Nagaya is de¬ 
layed in her desired departure, by the unforeseen opposi¬ 
tion and unedifying contumacy of Sah-lhma, Poet Laureate 
of this realm; and lest it may be perchance imagined by 
the uninitiated, that the maidenis in any way unwilling 
to fulfil her glorious dostiny, the High and Immaculate 
Priestess of the Shrine doth bid me here pronounce a 
respite; a brief interval wherein, if the King and the 
People be willing, he who is named Sah-Mma shall, by 
virtue of his high renown, be permitted to address the 
Virgin-victim and ascertain her own wishes from her 
own lips. Injustice cannot dwell within this Sacred 
Temple,—and if, on trial, the maiden chooses the transi¬ 
tory joys of Earth in preference to the everlasting joys of 
the Palaces of the Sun, then in Nagaya’s name shall she 
go free!—inasmuch as the god loves not a reluctant bride, 
and better no Sacrifice at all, than one that is grudgingly 
consummated! ” 

He ceased,—and Sah-liuna sprang erect, his eyes spark¬ 
ling, his whole demeanor that of a man unexpectedly dis¬ 
burdened from some crushing grief. 

“ Thanks be unto the benevolent destinies! ” he ex¬ 
claimed, flashing a quick glance of gratitude toward 
Lysia, . . the statuesque Lysia, on whose delicately curved 
lips the faintly derisive smile still lingered . . . . “ And 
in return for the life of my Niphrata I will give a 
thousand jewels rare beyond "all price to deck Nag£ya’§ 



AEDATU. 


365 


tabernacle!—and I will pour libations to the Sun for 
twenty days and nights, in token of my heart’s requital 
for mercy well bestowed ! ” 

. Stooping he kissed the King’s hand,—whereupon at a 
sign from Zel, one of the priests attired in scarlet unfas¬ 
tened Niphrata’s bound hands, and led her, as one leads a 
blind child, straight up to where Sah-lftma and Theos 
stood, close beside the King, who, together with many 
others, stared curiously upon her. How fixed and fever¬ 
ishly brilliant were her large dark-blue eyes ! . . how set 
were the sensitive lines of her mouth!—how indifferent 
she seemed, how totally unaware of the Laureate’s pres¬ 
ence ! The priest who brought her retired into the 
background, and she remained where he left her, quite 
mute and motionless. Oh, how every nerve in Theos’s 
body throbbed with inexpressible agony as he beheld her 
thus ! The wildest remorse possessed him, . . it was as 
though he looked on the dim picture of a ruin which he 
himself had recklessly wrought, . . and he could have 
groaned aloud in the horrible vagueness of his incompre- 
sible despair ! Sah-lftma caught the girl’s hand, and 
peered into her white, still face. 

“ Niphrata ! . . Niphrata! ” he said in a tremulous half- 
whisper, “ I am here,—Sah-l&ma! . . Dost thou not know 
me!” 

She sighed, . . a long, shivering sigh,—and smiled, . . 
what a strange, wistful, dying smile it was! . . but she 
made no answer. 

“ Niphrata ! ”—continued the Laureate, passionately 
pressing the little, cold fingers that lay so passively 
in his grasp . . “ Look at me! . . I have come to save 
thee! . . to take thee home again, . . home to thy flowers, 
thy birds, thy harp, . . thy pretty chamber with its 
curtained nook, where thy friend Zoralin waits and weeps 
all day for thee ! . . . . O ye gods !—how weak am 
I ! ” . . and he fiercely dashed away the drops that 
glistened on his black silky lashes, . . . “ Come with 
me, sweet one ! . . ” he resumed tenderly—“ Come!— 
Why art thou thus silent? . . thou whose voice hath 
many a time outrivalled the music of the nightingales! 
Hast thou no word for me, thy lord ?—Come ! ” . . and 
Theos, struggling to repress his own rising tears, heard 
his friend’s accents sink into a still lower, more caressing 
cadence . . . “ Thou shalt never again have cause for 



m 


Abb Am. 


grief, my Niphratsb never! . . We will never part! . . . 
Listen ! . . am I not lie whom thou lovest ? ” 

The poor child’s set mouth trembled,—her beautiful 
sad eyes gazed at him uncomprehendingly. 

“ He whom I love is not here! ” . . she said in tired, 
soft tones ; “ I left him, but he followed me ; and now, he 
waits for me . . . yonder! ” . . And she turned resolutely 
toward the Sanctuary, as though compelled to do so by 
some powerful mesmeric attraction, . . . “ See you not 
how fair he is! ” . . . and she pointed with her disengaged 
hand to the formidable python, through whose huge 
coils ran the tremors of impatient and eager breathing, 
. . “ How tenderly his eyes behold me ! . . those eyes 
that I have worshipped so patiently, so faithfully, and yet 
that never lightened into love for me till now! O thou 
more than beloved !—How beautiful thou art, my adored 
one, my heart’s idol! ” and a look of pale exaltation light¬ 
ened her features, as she fixed her wistful gaze, like a 
fascinated bird, on the shadowy recess whence the Ser¬ 
pent had emerged—“ There,—there thou dost rest on a 
couch of fadeless roses!—how softly the moonlight en¬ 
folds thee with a radiance as of outspread wings!—I hear 
thy voice charming the silence! . . . thou dost call me 
by my name, . . O once poor name made rich by thy 
sweet utterance ! Yes, my beloved, I am ready ! . . I 
come! I shall die in thy embraces, . . nay, I shall not 
die but sleep! . . and dream a dream of love that shall 
last forever and ever ! No more sorrow . . no more 
tears, . no more heartsick longings.” 

Here she stopped in her incoherent speech, and strove 
to release her hand from Sah-llima’s, her blue eyes filling 
with infinite anxiety and distress. 

“ I pray thee, good stranger,” she entreated with touch¬ 
ing mildness,—“ whosoever thou art, delay me not, but 
let me go! . . I am but a poor love-sorrowful maid on 
whom Love hath at last taken pity !—be gentle therefore, 
and hinder me not on my way to Sah-lftma. I have waited 
for happiness so long ! . . so long ! ” 

Her young, plaintive voice quavered into a half sob,— 
and again she endeavored to break away from the Lau¬ 
reate’s hold. But he, overcome by the excess of his own 
grief and agitation, seized her other hand, and drew her 
close up to him. 

“ Niphr&ta, Niphrata! ” he cried despairingly. “ What 



ABB ATE. -— 


367 


evil hath befallen thee? Where is thy sight . . thy 
memory ? . . Look! . . Look straight in these eyes of 
mine, and read there my truth and tenderness ! . . I am 
Sah-lfima, thine own Sah-lftma! . . thy poet, thy lover, 
thy master, thy slave, . . all that thou wouldst have me 
oe, I am I Whither wouldst thou wander in search of 
me? Thou hast no further to go, dear heart, than these 
arms, . . thou art safe with me, my singing bird, . . come! 
. . Let me lead thee hence, and home! ” 

She watched him while he spoke, with a strange ex¬ 
pression of distrust and uneasiness. Then, by a violent 
effort, she wrenched her hands from his clasp, and stood 
aloof, waving him back with an eloquent gesture of 
amazed reproach. 

“ Away ! ” she said, in firm accents of sweet severity,— 
“ Thou art a demon that dost seek to tempt my soul to 
ruin ! Thou Sah-lfima ! ” . . and she lifted her lily- 
crowned head with a movement of proud rejection . . 
“Nay! . thou mayst wear his look, his smile, . . . thou 
mayst even borrow the clear heaven-lustre of his eyes,— 
but I tell thee thou art fiend, not angel, and I will not 
follow thee into the tangled ways of sin! Oh, thou 
knowest not the meaning of true love, thou! . . . There 
is treachery on thy lips, and thy tongue is trained to utter 
honeyed falsehood! Methinks thou hast wantonly broken 
many a faithful heart!—and made light jest of many a 
betrayed virgin’s sorrow! And thou darest to call thy¬ 
self my Poet, . . . my Sah-lhma, in whom there is no 
guile, and who would die a thousand deaths rather than 
wound the frailest soul that trusted him! . . Depart 
from me, thou hypocrite in Poet’s guise! . . thou cruel 
phantom of my love! . . Back to that darkness where 
thou dost belong, and trouble not my peace ! ” 

Sah-lftma recoiled from her, amazed and stupefied. 
Theos clenched his hands together in a sort of physical 
effort to keep down the storm of emotions working within 
him,—for Niphr&ta’s words burnt into his brain like fire, 
. . too well, too well he understood their full intensity 
of meaning! She loved the ideal Sah-lhma, . . the Sah- 
Mma of her own pure fancies and desires, . . not the 
real man as he was, with all his haughty egotism, vain¬ 
glory, and vice,—vice in which he took more pride than 
.shame. Perhaps she had never known him in his actual 
character,—she, like other women of her lofty and ardent 


368 


jiiiVJiJ n. 


type, had no doubt set up tne hero of her life as a god 
in the shrine of her own holy and enthusiastic imagination, 
and had there endowed him with resplendent virtues, 
which he had never once deemed it worth his while to 
practise. Oh the loving hearts of women!—How much r 
men have to answer for, when they voluntarily break [ 
these clear mirrors of affection, wherein they, all un- ! 
worthy, have been for a time reflected angel-wise, with 
all the warmth and color of an innocently adoring passion 
shining about th«m like the prismatic rays in a vase of 
polished crystal! To Niphrata, Sah-lftma remained as a 
sort of splendid divinity, for whom no devotion was too 
vast, too high, or too complete, . . better, oh surely far 
better that she should die in her beautiful self-deception, 
than live to see her elected idol descend to his true level, 
and openly display all the ^weaknesses of his volatile, flip¬ 
pant, godless, sensual, yet, alas ! most fascinating and 
genius-gifted nature, . . a nature, which, overflowing 
as it was with potentialities of noble deeds, yet lacked 
sufficient intrinsic faith and force to accomplish them! 
This thought stung Theos like a sharp arrow-prick, and 
filled him with a strange, indescribable penitence; and 
he stood in dumb misery, remorsefully eyeing his friend’s 
consternation, disappointment, and pained bewilderment, 
without being able to offer him the slightest consolation. 

Sah-lfima was indeed the very picture of dismay, . . 
if he had never suffered in his life before, surely he 
suffered now! Niplirata, the tender, the humbly adoring 
Kiphr&ta, positively rejected him !—refused to recognize 
his actual presence, and turned insanely away from him 
toward some dream-ideal Sah-lfima whom she fancied 
could only be found in that unexplored country bordered 
by the cold river of Death! Meanwhile, the silence in 
the Temple was intense,—the Priests were like so many 
wax figures fastened in fixed positions ; the King, leaning 
slightly forward in his chair, had the appearance of a 
massively moulded image of bronze,—and toTheos’s over¬ 
wrought condition of mind, the only actually living things 
present seemed to be the monster Serpent whose scaly 
folds palpitated visibly in the strong light, . . and the 
hideous “ Eye of Raplion,” that blazed on Lysia’s breast 
with a menacing stare, as of a wrathful ghoul. All at once 
a flash of comprehension lightened the Laureate’s sternly 
perplexed face,—a bitter laugh broke from his lips. 


ardath: 


369 


“ She has been drugged! ” he cried fiercely, pointing to 
Niphrata’s white and rigid form, . . “ Poisoned by some 
deadly potion devised of devils, to twist and torture the 
quivering centres of the brain! Accursed work!—Will 
none undo it?” and springing forward nearer the 
Shrine, he raised his angry, impassioned eyes to the dark, 
inscrutable ones of the High Priestess, who met his 
troubled look with serene and irresponsive gravity . . . 
“ Is there no touch of human pity in things divine ? . . . 
no mercy in the icy fate that rules our destinies? . . 
This child knows naught of what she does; she hath 
been led astray in a moment of excitement and religious 
exaltation, . . her mind hath lost its balance,—her 
thoughts float disconnectedly on a sea ot vague illu¬ 
sions, . . . Ah! . by the gods! . I understand it all 
now! ” and he ‘suddenly threw himself on his knees, his 
appealing gaze resting, not on the Snake-Deity, but on 
the lovely countenance of Lysia, fair and brilliant as a 
summer morn, with a certain waving light of triumph 
about it, like the reflected radiance of sunbeams, . . . 
“ She is under the influence of Raphon ! . . O withering 
madness! . O cureless misery . . She is ruled by that 
most horrible secret force, unknown as yet to the outer 
world of men! . . and she hears things that are not, and 
sees what has no existence! O Lysia, Daughter of the 
Sun! . . I do beseech thee, by all the inborn gentleness 
of womanhood, unwind the Mystic Spell! ” 

A serious smile of feigned, sorrowful compassion parted 
the beautiful lips of the Priestess ; but she gave no word 
or sign in answer,—and the weird Jewel on her breast at 
that moment shot forth a myriad scintillations as of 
pointed sharp steel. Some extraordinary power in it, or 
in Lysia herself, was manifestly at work,—for with a 
violent start Sah-lftma rose from his knees, and staggered 
helplessly backward, . . one hand pressed to his eyes as 
though to shut out some blinding blaze of lightning! He 
seemed to be vaguely groping his way to his former place 
beside the King, and Theos, seeing this, quickly caught 
him by the arm and drew him thither, whispering anx¬ 
iously the while: 

“ Sah-lftma!—Sah-lftma! . . . What ails thee ? ” 

The Laureate turned upon him a bewildered, piteous 
face, white with an intensity of speechless anguish. 

“ Nothing ! ” . . . he faltered,—“ Nothing ! . . ’tia 
24 


370 


ARDATH. 


over, . . the child must die!” .... Then all suddenly 
the hard, drawn lines of his countenance relaxed,—great 
tears gathered in his eyes, and fell slowly one by one, . . 
and moving aside, he shrank away as far as possible into 
the shadow cast by a huge column close by . . “ O 
Niphrata! . . Niphrata! ” . . Theos heard him say in a 
voice broken by despair . . “ Why do I love thee only 
now, . . now , when thou art lost to me forever! ” 

The King looked after him half-compassionately, lmlf- 
sullenly; but presently paid no further heed to his dis¬ 
tress. Theos, however, kept near him, whispering what¬ 
ever poor suggestions of comfort he could, in the ex¬ 
tremity of his own grief, devise, . . a hopeless task,—for 
to all his offered solace Sah-lhma made but the one 
reply : 

“ Oh let me weep! . . Let me weep for the untimely 
death of Innocence ! ” 

And now the cithern-playing, which had ceased, com¬ 
menced again, accompanied by the mysterious thrilling 
bass notes of the invisible organ-like instrument, whose 
sound resembled the roll and rush of huge billows break¬ 
ing into foam. As the rich and solemn strains swept 
grandly through the spacious Temple, Niphrata stretched 
out her hands toward the High Priestess, a smile of 
wonderful beauty lighting up her fair child-face. 

“ Take me, 0 ye immortal gods ! ” she cried, her voice 
ringing in clear tune above all the other music . . “ Take 
me and bear me away on your strong, swift wings to the 
Everlasting Palaces of Air, wherein all sorrows have end, 
and patient love meets at last its long-delayed reward! 
Take me . . for lo! I am ready to depart! My soul is 
wounded and weary of its prison,—it struggles to be free! 
O Destiny, I thank thee for thy mercy ! . . I praise thee 
for the glory thou dost here unveil before mine eyes! 
Pardon my sins ! . . accept my life! . . . sanctify my love ! ” 

A murmur of relief and rejoicing ran rippling through 
the listening crowds,—a weight seemed lifted from their 
minds, . . the victim was willing to die after all! . . . the 
Sacrifice would be proceeded with. There was a slight 
pause,—during which the priests crossed and re-crossed 
the Sanctuary many times, one of them descending the 
steps to tie Ni'phr&ta’s hands behind her back as before- 
In the immediate interest of the moment, Sah-lftma and 
his hot interference seemed to be almost forgotten,. . a 


Am Am. 


m 

few people, indeed, cast injured and indignant looks to¬ 
ward the corner where he dejectedly leaned, and once the 
wrinkled, malicious head of old Zabastes peered at him, 
with an expression of incredulous amazement,—but other¬ 
wise no sympathy was manifested by any one for the 
popular Laureate’s suffering and discomfiture. He was 
the nation’s puppet, . . its tame bird, whose business was 
to sing when bidden, . . but he was not expected to have 
any voice in matters of religion or policy,—and still less 
was he supposed to intrude any of his own personal griefs 
on the public notice. Let him sing!—and sing well,— 
that was enough; but let him dare to be afflicted, and 
annoy others with his wants and troubles, why then he 
at once became uninteresting! . . he might even die for 
all anybody cared! This was the unspoken sullen 
thought that Theos, sensitive to the core on his friend’s 
behalf, instinctively felt to be smouldering in the heart 
of the mighty multitude,—and he resented the half-im¬ 
plied, latent ungratefulness of the people with all his soul. 

“ Fools! ” . . he muttered under his breath,—“ For you, 

, and such as you, the wisest sages toil in vain 1 .... on 
you Art wastes her treasures of suggestive loveliness ! . . 
low grovellers in earth, ye have no eyes for heaven ! O 
ignorant, ungenerous, fickle hypocrites, whose ruling pas¬ 
sion is the greed of gold!—Why should great men perish, 
that ye may live! . . And yet . . your acclamations make 
up the thing called Fame! Fame ? . . Good God !—’tis a 
brief shout in the universal clamor, scarce heard and soon 
forgotten! ” 

And filled with strange bitterness, he gazed disconso¬ 
lately at Niphrata, who stood like one in a trance of ec¬ 
stasy, patiently awaiting her doom, her lovely, innocent 
blue eyes gladly upturned to the long, jewel-like head of 
Nag&ya, which twined round the summit of the ebony 
staff, seemed to peer down at her in a sort of drowsy re- 
flectiveness. Then, all suddenly, Lysia spoke, . . how en- ' 
chanting was the exquisite modulation of that slaw, 
languid, silvery voice! 

“ Come hither, O Maiden fair, pure, and faithful ! 

The desire of thy soul is granted ! 

Before thee are the Gates of the Unknown World ! 

Already they open to admit thee ; 

Through their golden bars gleams the glory of thy future S 
Speak ! . . What seest thou ? ” 



372 


ARDATH. 


A moment of breathless silence ensued,—all present 
seemed to be straining their ears to catch the victim’s 
answer. Tt came,—soft and clear as a bell: 

“ I see a wondrous land o’er-canopied with skies of 
gold and azure: . . white flowers grow in the fragrant 
fields, . . there are many trees, ... I hear the warbling 
of many birds; . . . I see fair faces that smile upon me 
and gentle hands that beckon! . . . Figures that wear 
glistening robes, and carry garlands of roses and myrtle, 
pass slowly, singing as they go! . . How beautiful they 
are! How strange! . . how sweet ! ” 

And as she uttered these words, in accents of dreamy 
delight, she ascended the first step of the Shrine. Theos, 
looking, held his breath in wonder and fear, while Sah- 
lftma with a groan turned himself resolutely away, and, 
pressing his forehead against the great column where he 
stood, hid his eyes in his clasped hands. 

The High Priestess continued: 

“ Come hither, O Maiden of chaste and patient life ! 

Rejoice greatly, for thy virtue hath pleased the gods : 

The undiscovered marvels of the Stars are thine, 

Earth has no more control over thee : 

Heaven is thine absolute Heritage ! . . . 

Behold ! the Ship of the Sun awaits thee ! 

Speak ! . . What seest thou ? ” 

A soft cry of rapture came from the girl’s lips. 

“ Oh, I see glory everywhere ! ” . . she exclaimed . . 
“ Light everywhere! . . Peace everywhere! . . . O joy, 
joy! . . The face of my beloved shines upon me,—he 
calls, . . he bids me come to him! . . Ah! we shall be to¬ 
gether at last, . . we twain shall be as one never to part, 
never to doubt, never to suffer more! O let me hasten to 
him! . . Why should I linger thus, when I would fain be 
gone!” 

And she sprang eagerly up the second and third steps 
of the Sanctuary, and faced Lysia,—her head thrown 
back, her blue eyes ablaze with excitement, her bosom 
heaving, and her delicate features transfigured and il¬ 
lumined by unspeakable inward delirious bliss. Just 
then the Priest Zel lifted the long, jewel-hilted knife from 
the black cushion where it had lain till now, and, crouch¬ 
ing stealthily in the shadow behind Lysia, held it in both 
hands, pointed straight forward in a level line with 


ARDATH. 


373 ' 


Niphrata’s breast. Thus armed, he Waited, silent and 
immovable. 

A slight shudder of morbid expectancy seemed to quiver 
through the vast congregation, . . but Theos’s nerves 
were strung up to such a high pitch of frenzied horror 
tnat he could neither speak nor sigh,—motionless as a 
statue, he could only watch, with freezing blood, each de¬ 
tail of the extraordinary scene. Once more the High 
Priestess spoke: 

‘ ■ Come hither, O happy Maiden whose griefs are ended : 

The day of thy triumph and reward has dawned ! 

For thee the Immortals unveiled the mysteries of being,— 

To thee, they openly declare all secrets . . . 

To thee the hidden things of Wisdom are made manifest: 

For the last time ere thou leavest us, hear, and answer, . . 

Speak !—What seest thou ? ” 

“ LOVE! ” replied Niphrata in a tone of thrilling and 
solemn tenderness . . “ LOVE, the Eternal All, in which 
dark things are made light!—Love, that is never served 
in vain ! . . LOVE wherein lost happiness is rediscovered 
and perfected! . . . O DIVINE LOVE, by whom the 
passion of my heart is sanctified! Absorb me in the 
quenchless glory of thine Immortality ! . . . Draw me to 
Thyself, and let me find in Thee my Soul’s completion! ” 

Her voice sank to a low prayerful emphasis, . . her 
look was as of a rapt angel waiting for wings. Lysia’s 
gaze dwelt upon her with slow-dilating wonder and con¬ 
tempt . . such a devout and earnest supplication was 
evidently not commonly heard from the lips of Nagaya’s 
victims. At that instant, too, Nagaya himself seemed 
curiously excited and disturbed,—his great glittering 
coils quivered so violently, as to shake the rod on which 
he was twined, . . and when his Priestess raised her 
mesmeric reproving eyes toward him, he bent back his 
head rebelliously, and sent a vehement hiss through the 
silence, like the noise made by the whirl of a scimitar. 

Suddenly, and with deafening abruptness, a clap of 
thunder, short and sharp as a quick volley of musketry, 
crashed overhead,—accompanied bj r a strange circular 
sweep of lightning that blazed through the windows of 
the Temple, illumining it from end to end with a brilliant 
blue glare. The superstitious crowd exchanged startled 
looks of terror, . . . the King moved uneasily and glanced 
frowningly about him,—it was plainly manifest that no 


874 


ABB ATS. 


one had forgotten the disastrous downfall of the Obelisk, 
. . and there seemed to be a contagion of alarm in the 
very air. But Lysia was perfectly self-possessed, . . in 
fact she appeared to accept the threat of a storm as an 
imposing, and by no means undesirable, adjunct to the 
mysteries of the Sacrificial Rite, for riveting her basilisk 
eyes on Niphrata, she said in firm, clear, decisive accents : 

“ The gods grow impatient! . . Wherefore, O Princess 
and People of Al-Kyris, let us hasten to appease their 
anger! Depart, O stainless Maid ! . . depart hence, and 
betake thee to the Golden Throne of the Sun, our Lord 
and Ruler, . . and in the Name of Nagaya, may the shed¬ 
ding of thy virginal blood avert from us and ours the 
wrath of the Immortals! Linger no longer, . . Nagaya 
accepts thee! . . and the Hour strikes Death! ” 

With the last word a sullen bell boomed heavily 
through and through the Temple . . and, at once, . . like 
a frenzied bird or butterfly winging its way into scorch¬ 
ing flame, . . Niphrata rushed forward with swift, un¬ 
hesitating, dreadful precision straight on the knife outheld 
by the untrembling ruthless hands of the Priest Zel! 
One second,—and Theos sick with horror, saw her speed¬ 
ing thus,.the next,—and the whole place was 

enveloped in dense darkness! 


CHAPTER XXIX, 

THE CUP OF WRATH AND TREMBLING. 

A flash of time, .... an instant of black, horrid 
eclipse, too brief for the utterance of even a word or cry, . „ 
. . and then,—with an appalling roar, as of the splitting 
of huge rocks and the tearing asunder of mighty mount¬ 
ains, the murky gloom was lifted, rent, devoured, and 
swept away on all sides by a sudden bursting forth of 

Fire!.Fire leaped up alive in twenty different 

parts of the building, springing aloft in spiral coils from 
the marble pavement that yawned crashingly open to 
give the impetuous flames their rapid egress, ... fire 
climbed lithely round and round the immense carven 
columns, and ran, nimbly dancing and crackling its way 
.among the paintedand begemmed decorations of the dome t 




AUDATH. 


875 


. . . fire enwrapped the side-altars, and shrivelled the 
jewelled idols at a breath, . . . fire unfastened and shook 
down the swinging-lamps, the garlands, the splendid 
draperies of silk and cloth-of-gold .... fire—fire every¬ 
where ! . . and the madly affrighted multitude, stunned 
by the abrupt shock of terror, stood for a moment para¬ 
lyzed and inert, . . . then, with one desperate yell of wild 
brute fear and ferocity, they rushed headlong in a strug- f 
gling, shrieking, cursing, sweltering swarm toward the 
great closed portals of the central aisle. As they did so, 
a tremendous weight of thunder seemed to descend solidly ^ 
on the roof with a thudding burst as though a thousand 
walls had been battered down at one blow, . . . the whole 
edifice rocked and trembled in the terrific reverberation, 
and almost simultaneously, the doors were violently jerked 
open, wrenched from their hinges, and hurled, all burning 
and split with flame, against the forward-fighting crowds! 
Several hundred fell under the fiery mass, a charred heap 
of corpses,—the raging remainder pressed on in frenzied 
haste, clambering over piles of burning dead,—trampling 
on scorched, disfigured faces that perhaps but a moment 
since had been dear to them,—each and all bent on forcing 
a way out to the open air. In the midst of the overwhelm¬ 
ing awfulness of the scene, Theos still retained sufficient 
presence of mind to remember that, whatever happened, 
his first care must be for Sah-lflma, . . . always for Sah- 
lftma, no matter who else perished! . . . and he now held 
that beloved comrade closely clasped by the arm, while he 
eagerly glanced about him on every side for some outlet 
through which to make a good and swift escape. 

The most immediate place of safety seemed to be the 
Inner Sanctuary of Nagaya, ... it was untouched by the 
flames, and its Titanic pillars of brass and bronze sug¬ 
gested, in their very massiveness, a nearly impregnable 
harbor of refuge. The King had fled thither, and now 
stood, like a statue of undaunted gloomy amazement, be¬ 
side Lysia, who on her part appeared literally frozen with 
terror. Her large, startled eyes, roving here and there in 
helpless anxiety, alone gave any animation to the deathly, 
rigid whiteness of her face, and she still mechanically 
supported the Sacred Ebony Staff, without apparently 
being aware of the fact that the Snake Deity, convulsed 
through all his coils with fright, had begun to make there¬ 
from his rapid descent. The the virgins, —the 


376 


ARBATH. 


poor, unhappy little singing children,—flocked hurriedly 
together, and darted to the back of the great Shrine, in 
the manifest intention of reaching some private way of 
egress known only to themselves,—but their attempts 
were evidently frustrated, for no sooner had they gone 
than they sped back again, their faces scorched and black¬ 
ened, and uttering cries and woeful lamentations they 
flung themselves wildly among the struggling crowds in 
the main body of the Temple, and fought for life in the 
laws of death, every one for Self, and no one for another! 
v olumes of smoke rolled up from the ground, in thick and 
suffocating clouds, accompanied by incessant sharp reports 
like the close firing of guns, . . jets of flame and showers 
of cinders broke forth fountain-like, scattering hot de¬ 
struction on every hand, . . while a few flying sparks 
caught the end of the “ Silver Veil”—and withered it 
into nothingness with one bright resolute flare! 

Half maddened by the shrieks and dying groans that 
resounded everywhere about him, and yet all the time feel¬ 
ing as though he were some spectator set apart, and con¬ 
demned to watch the progress of a ghastly phantasmagoria 
in Hell, Theos was just revolving in his mind whether it 
would or would not be possible to make a determined 
climb for escape through one of the tall painted windows, 
some of which were not yet reached by the fire, when, 
with a sudden passionate exclamation, Sah-Hlma broke 
from his hold and rushed to the Sanctuary. Quick as 
lightning, Theos followed him, . . . followed him close, 
as he sprang up the steps and confronted Lysia with eager, 
outstretched arms. The dead Niphrata lay near him, 
. . fair as a sculptured saint, with the cruel wound of 
sacrifice in her breast,—but he seemed not to see that 
piteous corpse of Faithfulness ! His grief for her death 
had been a mere transient emotion, . . his stronger earthly 
i passions re-asserted their tempestuous sway,—and for 
j sweet things perished and gone to heaven he had no further 
' care. On Lysia, and on Lysia’s living beauty alone, his 
eyes flamed their ardent glory. 

“ Come! . . Come! ” he cried . . “ Come, my love—my 
life! . . Let me save thee! . . Or if I cannot save thee, 
let us die together! ” 

Scarcely had the words left his lips, when the King, 
with a swift forward movement like the pounce of some 
desert-panther, turned fiercely upon him, . . amazement* 


ARDATH. 


877 

jealousy, distrust, revenge, all gathering stormily in the 
black frown of his bent vindictive brows. His great chest 
heaved pantingly—his teeth glittered wolfishly through 
his jetty beard, . . and in the terrible nerve-tension of 
the moment, the fury of the spreading conflagration was 
forgotten, at any rate, by Theos, who, stricken numb and 
rigid by a shock of alarm too poignant for expression, 
stared aghast at the three figures before him .... Sah- 
lfima, Lysia, Zephoranim, . . especially Zephoranim, 
whose bursting wrath threatened to choke his utterance. 

“ What sayest thou, Sah-lftma ? ” he demanded in a 
sort of ferocious gasping whisper . . . “Repeat thy 
words! . . . Repeat them! ” . . and his hand clutched 
at his dagger-hilt, while his restless, lowering glance 
flashed from Lysia to the Laureate and from the Laureate 
back to Lysia again . . “ Death encompasses us, . . this 
is no time for trifling! . . Speak L” . . and his voice sud¬ 
denly rose to a frantic shout of rage, “ Speak! What is 
this woman to thee ? ” 

“ Everything! ” . . returned Sah-luma with prompt 
and passionate fearlessness, his glorious eyes blazing a 
proud defiance as he spoke . . “ Everything that woman 
can be, or ever shall be, unto man! Call her by whatso¬ 
ever name a foolish creed enjoins, . . Virgin-Daughter of 
the Sun, or High-Priestess of Nagaya,—she is nevertheless 
mine !—and mine only ! I am her lover! ” 

“ THOU! ” and with a hoarse cry, Zephoranim sprang 
upon, and seized him by the throat . . “ Thou liest! I,— 
I, crowned King of Al-Kyris, I am her lover!—chosen by 
her out of all men! . . and dost thou dare to pretend that 
she hath preferred thee, a mere singer of mad songs, to 
me f . . Thou unscrupulous knave! . . I tell thee she is 
mine!” . . Dost hear me?—Mine . . mine . . mine ! ” and he 
shrieked the last word out in a perfect hurricane of passion, 
—“ My Queen . . my mistress !—heart of my heart!—soul 
of my soul! . . Let the city burn to ashes, and the whole 
land be utterly consumed, in death as in life Lysia is mine I 
.. and the gods themselves shall never part her from me! ’* 

And suddenly releasing his grasp he hurled Sah-luma 
away as he might have hurled aside a toy figure,—and 
a peal of reckless musical laughter echoed mockingly 
through the vaulted shrine. It was Lysia’s laughter ! . . 
and Theos’s blood grew cold as he heard its cruel, silvery 
ring . , , , even so had she laughed when Nir-jalis died! 


878 ARDATH. 

Sah-lftma reeled backward from the King’s thrust, but 
did not fall,—white and trembling, with his sad and 
splendid features frozen as it were into a sculptured mask 
of agonized beauty, he turned upon the treacherous woman 
he loved the silent challenge of his eloquent eyes. Oh, 
that look of piteous pain and wonder! a whole lifetime’s 
wasted opportunities seemed concentrated in its unspeak¬ 
able reproach! She met it with a sort of triumphant, 
tranquil indifference, . . au uncontrollable wicked smile 
curved the corners of her red lips, . . the sacred Ebony 
Staff had somehow slipped from her hands, and it now lay 
on the ground, the half-uncoiled Serpent still clinging to 
it, in glittering lengths that appeared to be quite motion¬ 
less. 

“ Ah, Lysia, hast thou played me false ? ” . . cried the 
unhappy Laureate at last, as with a quick, impulsive 
movement, he caught her round jewelled arm in a resolute 
grip . . “ After all thy vows, thy endearments, thy em¬ 
braces, hast thou betrayed me? Speak truly! . . Art 
thou not all in all to me ? . . hast thou not given thyself 
body and soul into my keeping? To this braggart King 
I deign no answer—one word of thine will suffice! . . Be 
brave . . be faithful! . . Declare thy love for me, even 
as thou hast oft declared it a thousand remembered 
times! ” 

Over the face of the beautiful Priestess swept a strange 
expression of mingled fear, antagonism, loathing, and ex¬ 
ultation. Her eyes wandered to the red-tongued leaping 
flames that tossed in eddying rings round the Temple, 
running every second nearer to the place where she stood, 
and in that one glance she seemed to recognize the hope¬ 
lessness of rescue and certainty of death. A careless, 
haughty acceptance of her fate manifested itself in the 
pallid resolve of her drawn features, . . but as she al¬ 
lowed her gaze to return and dwell on Sah-ltima, the old, 
malicious mirth flushed and gave lustre to her loveliness, 
and she laughed again ... a laugh of uttermost bitter 
scorn. 

“ Declare my love for thee ! ” she said in thrilling ac¬ 
cents . . “ Thou boaster! Let the gods, who have kin¬ 
dled this fiery end for us, bear witness to my hatred! I 
hate thee! . . Aye, even thee/ ” . . and she pointed at 
him jeeringly, as he recoiled from her in wide-eyed an¬ 
guish and amazement;—“No man have I ever loved, 


ARDATti. 


m 


but thee have I hated most of all! All men have I de¬ 
spised for their folly, greed and vain-glory,—I have fought 
them with their own weapons of avarice, cunning, cruelty, 
and falsehood,—but thou hast been even beneath my con¬ 
tempt! ’Twas scarcely worth my while to fool thee, 
thou wert so easily fooled! . . ’Twas idle sport to rouse 
thy passions, they were so easily roused! Poet and Per¬ 
jurer, . . Singer and Sophist! Thou to whom the Ge¬ 
nius of Poesy was as a pearl set in a swine’s snout! . thou 
wert not worthy to be my dupe, seeing that thou earnest 
to me already in bonds, the dupe of thine own Self! Ni- 
phr&ta loved thee,—and thou didst play with and torture 
her more unmercifully than wild beasts play with and 
torture their prey ; . . but thou couldst never trifle with 
me! O thou who hast taken so much pride in the break¬ 
ing of many women’s hearts, learn that thou hast never 
stirred one throb of passion in mine! . . that I have 
loathed thy beauty while caressing thee, and longed to 
slay thee while embracing thee! . and that even now I 
would I saw thee dead before me, ere I myself am forced 
to die! ” 

Pausing in the swift torrent of her words, her white 
breast heaved violently with the rise and fall of her pant¬ 
ing breath,—her dark, brilliant eyes dilated, while the 
symbolic Jewel she wore, and the crown of serpents’ 
heads in her streaming hair, seemed to glitter about her 
like so many points of lightning. At that instant one 
side of the Sanctuary split asunder, giving way to a 
bursting wreath of flames. Seeing this, she uttered a 
piercing cry, and stretched out her arms. 

“ Zephoranim ! . . Save me ! ” 

In a second, the King sprang toward her, but not 
before Sah-lflma, wild with wrath, had interposed himself 
between them. 

“ Back! ” he exclaimed passionately, addressing the 
infuriated monarch . . “ While I live, Lysia is mine!— 
let her hate*and deny me as she will!—and sooner than 
see her in thine arms, O King, I will slay her where she 
stands ! ” 

Ilis bold attitude was magnificent,—his countenance 
more than beautiful in its love-betrayed despair, . . and 
for a moment the savage Zephoranim paused irresolute, 
his scowling brows bent on his erstwhile favorite Min¬ 
strel with an expression that hovered curiously between 


380 


ARBATH. 


bitterest enmity and reluctant reverence. There seemed 
to be a struggling consciousness in his mind of the im¬ 
mortality of a Poet as compared with the evanescent 
power of a King,—and also a quick realisation of the 
truth that, let his anger be what it would, they twain 
were partakers in the same evil, and were mutually 
deceived by the same false woman! But ere his saving 
sense of justice could prevail, a ripple of discordant, 
delirious laughter broke once more from Lysia’s lips,— 
her eye shone vindictively,—her whole face became 
animated with a sudden glow of fiendish triumph. 

“ Zephoranim ! ” she cried, “Hero! . . Warrior! . . 
King! . . Thou who hast risked thy crown and throne 
and life for my sake and the love of me! . . Wilt lose 
me now ? . . Wilt let me perish in these raging flames, 
to satisfy this wanton liar and unbeliever in the gods, to 
whose disturbance of the Holy Ritual we surely owe this 
present fiery disaster! Save me, O strong and noble 
Zephoranim ! . . Save me, and with me save the city and 
the people! Kill SalMma ! ” 

O barbarous, inexorable words!—they rang like a 
desolating knell in the ears of the bewildered, fear- 
stricken Theos, and startled him from his rigid trance of 
speechless misery. Uttering an inarticulate dull groan, 
he made a violent effort to rush forward—to serve as a 
living shield of defence to his adored friend, ... to ward 
off the imminent blow! Too late! too late! . . Zepho- 
ranim’s dagger glittered in the air, and rapidly de¬ 
scended . . . One gasping cry! . . and Sah-lftma lay 
prone,—beautiful as a slain Adonis, . . the rich red 
blood pouring from his heart, and a faint, stern smile 
frozen on the proud lips whose dulcet singing-speech was 
now struck dumb forever! With a shriek of agony, 
Theos threw himself beside his murdered comrade, . . 
heedless of King, Priestess, flames, and all the outbreak¬ 
ing fury of earth and heaven, he bent above that motion¬ 
less form, and gazed yearningly into the fair colorless 

“ Sah-lftma ! . . . . Sah-lftma! ” 

No sign! . . No tremulous stir of breath! Head— 
dead,—dead in his prime of years—dead in the zenith of 
his glory!—all the delicate, dreaming genius turned to 
dust and ashes! . . all the ardent light of inspiration, 
quenched in the never-lifting darkness of the grave! . . 



ARDATK. 


381 


and in the first delirious paroxysm of his grief Theos 
felt as though life, time, and the world were ended for 
him also, with this one suddenly destroyed existence! 

“O thou mad King!” he cried fiercely, “Thou hast 
slain the chief wonder of thy realm and reign ! Die now 
when thou wilt, thou slialt only be remembered as the 
murderer of Sah-lftma! . . . Sah-lftma, whose name shall 
live when thine is covered in shameful oblivion! ” 

Zephoranim frowned,—and threw the blood-stained 
dagger from him. 

“ Peace, clamorous fool! ” he said, “ Sah-lftma hath gone 
but a moment before me, . . as Poet he hath received 
precedence even in death ! When the last hour comes 
for all of us, it matters not how we die, . . and whether 
I am hereafter remembered or forgotten I care not! I 
have lived as a man should live,—fearing nothing and 
conquered by none,—except perchance by Love, that hath 
brought many kings ere now to untimely ruin! ” Here 
his moody eyes lighted on Lysia. “ How many lovers hast 
thou had, fair soul ? ” . . he demanded in a stern yet trem¬ 
ulous voice . . . “ A thousand ? . . I would swear this 
dead Minstrel of mine was one,—for though I slew him 
at thy bidding I saw the truth in his dying eyes ! . . . 
No matter!—We shall meet in Hades,—and there we 
shall have ample time to urge our rival claims upon thy 
favor! Ah! ” . . and he suddenly laid his two strong 
hands on her white uncovered shoulders, and gazed at her 
reproachfully as she shrank a little beneath his close 
scrutiny, . . “ Thou divine Traitress! Have I not chal¬ 
lenged the very heavens for thy sake ? . . and lo! the 
prophecy is fulfilled and Al-Kyris must fall! How many 
men would have loved thee as I have loved ? . . None ! 
not even this dead Sah-lhina, slain like a dog to give thee 
pleasure! Come! . . Let me kiss thee once again ere 
death makes cold our lips! False or true, thou art never¬ 
theless fair!—and the wrathful gods know best how I 
worship thy fairness ! ” 

And folding his arms about her, he kissed her pas¬ 
sionately. She clung to him like a lithe serpentine thing, 
—her eyes ablaze, her mouth quivering with suppressed 
hysterical laughter. Pointing to Sah-lftma’s body, she 
said in a strange excited whisper : 

“ Nay, hast thou slain him in very truth, Zephor4nim l 
, . shun him utterly ? For I have heard that poets can- 


ARDA TU. 


382 

not die,—they live when the whole world deems then® 
dead,—they rise from their shut graves and re-invest the 

earth with all the secrets of past time,.Oh! my 

brain reels ! . . I talk mere madness ! . . there is no after¬ 
wards of death!—No, no! No gods, no anything but 
blankness . . forgetfulness . . and silence ! . for us, and 
for all men ! . . . How good it is!—how excellently 
devised a jest I . . that the whole wide Universe should, 
be but a cheat of time ! . . . a bubble blown into Space, 
to float, break, and perish,—all for the idle sport of some 
unknown and shapeless Devil-Mystery ! ” 

Shuddering, half-laughing, half-weeping, she clasped 
her hands round the monarch’s throat, and hid her wild 
eyes in his breast, while he, unnerved by her distraction 
and his own inward torture, glared about him on all sides 
for some glimmering chance of rescue, but could see none. 
The flames were now attacking the Shrine on every side 
like a besieging army,—their leaping darts of blue and 
crimson gleaming here and there with indescribable ve¬ 
locity, . . and still Theos knelt by Sah-lhma’s corpse in 
dry-eyed despair, endeavoring with feverish zeal to stanch 
the oozing blood with a strip torn from his own garments, 
and listening anxiously for the feeblest heart-throb, or 
smaller pulsation of smouldering life in the senseless stif¬ 
fening clay. 

All at once a hideous scream assailed his ears,—an¬ 
other, and yet another rang above the crackling roar of 
the gradually conquering fire, . . and half-lifting Sah- 

lftma’s body in his arms, he looked up.O horror, 

horror! his nerves contracted,—his blood seemed to turn 
to ice in his veins, . his head swam giddily, . . and he 
thought the moment of his own death had come, for surely 
no man could behold the sight he saw and yet continue 
to live on ! Lysia the captor was made captive at last! 

. . bound, helpless, imprisoned, and hopelessly doomed, 
. . Nag&ya had claimed his own ! The huge Snake, ter¬ 
rified beyond all control at the bursting breadth of fire 
environing the shrine, had turned in its brute fear to the 
mistress it had for years been accustomed to obey, and 
had now, with one stealthy noiseless spring, twisted its 
uppermost coil close about her waist, where its restless 
head, alarmed eyes, and darting fangs all glistened to¬ 
gether like a blazing cluster of gems ! the more she strug¬ 
gled to release herself from its deathful embrace, th* 




ABDATH. 


383 


tighter its body contracted and the more maddened with 
fright it became. Shriek upon shriek broke from her lips 
and pierced the suffocating air, . . while with all his 
great muscular force Zephoranim the King strove in des¬ 
perate agony to tear her from the awful clutch of the 
monster he had but lately knelt to as divine! In vain, 
. . in vain ! . . the strongest efforts were useless, . . . 
the cruel, beautiful, pitiless Priestess of Nag&ya was con¬ 
demned to suffer the same frightful death she had so often 
mercilessly decreed for others ! Closer and closer grew 
the fearful Python’s constricting clasp, . . nearer and 
nearer swept the dancing battalion of destroying flames ! 
. . . For one fleeting breath of time Theos stared aghast 
at the horrid scene, . . . then making a superhuman effort 
he raised Sah-lhma’s corpse entirely from the ground and 
staggered with his burden away, . . . away from the 
burning Shrine, . . the funeral pyre, as it vaguely seemed 
to him, of a wasted Love and a dead passion ! 

Whither should he go ! . . Down into the blazing area 
of the fast-perishing Temple ? Surely'no safety could be 
found there, where the fire was raging at its utmost 
height ! . . yet he went on mechanically, as though urged 
forward by some force superior to his own, . . always 
clinging to the idea that his friend still lived and that if 
he could only reach some place of temporary shelter he 
might yet be able to restore him. It was possible the 
wound was not fatal, . . . far more possible to his 
mind than that so gloriously famed a Poet should be 
dead! 

So he dimly thought, while he stumbled dizzily along,.. 
his forehead wet with clammy dews, . . his limbs trem¬ 
bling under the weight he bore, . . his eyes half-blinded 
by the hot flying sparks and drifting smoke, . . and his 
soul shaken and appalled by the ghastly sights that met 
his view wheresoever he turned. Crushed and writhing 
bodies of men, women, and children, half-living, half- 
dead, . . heaps of corpses, fast blazing to ashes,—broken 
and falling columns, . . yawning gaps in the ground, 
from which were cast forth volleys of red cinders and 
streams of lava, ... all these multitudinous horrors sur¬ 
rounded him, as with uncertain, faltering steps he moved 
on like a sick man walking in sleep, carrying his precious 
burden! lie knew nothing of where he was bound,—he 


384 


ABDATH. 


saw no outlet anywhere—no corner wherein the Fire-fiend 
had not set up devouring dominion, . . hut nevertheless 
he steadily continued his difficult progress, clasping Sah- 
1 tuna’s corpse with a strange tenacity, and concentrating 
all his attention on protecting it from the withering touch 
of the ravenous flames. All at once,— as he strove to force 
his way over a fallen altar from which the hideous pre¬ 
siding stone idol had toppled headlong, killing in its de¬ 
scent some twenty or thirty people whose bodies lay 
crushed beneath it,—a face horribly disfigured and tor¬ 
tured into a mere burnt sketch of its former likeness 
twisted itself up and peered at him, the face of Zabastes, 
the Critic. His protruding eyes glistened with something 
of their old malign expression as he perceived whose help¬ 
less form it was that was being carried by. 

“ What! . . is the famous Sah-luma gone ? ” he gasped, 
his words half choking him in their utterance as he stret¬ 
ched out a skinny hand and caught at Theos’s garments 
. . . “ Good youth, stay! . . Stay! . . Why burden thy¬ 
self with a corpse when thou mightest rescue a living 
man ? Save me! . . Save me / . . I was the Poet’s ad¬ 
verse Critic, and who but I should write his Eulogy now 
that he is no more! . . Pity ! . . Pity, most courteous, 
gentle sir! . . Save me if only for the sake of Sah-lftma’s 
future honor! Thou knowest not how warmly, how gen¬ 
erously, how nobly, I can praise the dead! ” 

Theos gazed down upon him in unspeakable, melancholy 
scorn, . . . was it only through time-serving creatures 
such as this miserable ZaMstes, that the after-glory of 
perished poets was proclaimed to the world ? . . . What 
then was the actual worth of Fame ? 

Shuddering, he wrenched himself away, and passed on 
silently, heedless of the savage curses the despairing 
scribe yelled after him as he went, and he involuntarily 
pressed the dead corpse of his beloved friend closer to his 
heart, as though he thought he could re-animate it by this 
mute expression of tenderness ! Meanwhile the fire raged 
continuously,—the Temple was fast becoming a pillared 
mass of flames, . . and presently,—choked and giddy with 
the sulphurous vapors—he stopped abruptly, struggling 
for breath. His time had come at last, he thought, . . he 
with Sah-lfima must die ! 

Just then a loud muttering and rolling of thunder swept 
in eddying vibrations round him, followed by a sharp, 


1 UDATH. 


385 ^ 

splitting noise, . . . . raising his aching eyes, he saw 
straight before him, a yawning gloomy archway, like the 
solemn portal of a funeral vault . . dark, yet with a white 
glimmer of steps leading outward, and a dim sparkle as 
of stars in heaven. A rush of new vigor inspired him at 
this sight, and he resumed his way, stumbling over count¬ 
less corpses strewn among fallen blocks of marble,—and 
every now and then looking back in awful fascination to, 
the fiery furnace of the body of the Temple, where of all 
the vast numbers that had lately crowded it from end to 
end, there were only a hundred or so remaining alive,— 
and these were fast perishing in frightful agony. The 
Shrine of Nagaya was enveloped in thick black smoke, 
crossed here and there by flashes of flame,—the bare out¬ 
line of its Titanic architecture was scarcely discernible! 
Yet the thought of the dreadful end of Lysia,the loveliest 
woman lie had ever seen, moved him now to no emotion 
whatever—save . . gladness! Some deadly evil seemed 
burnt out of his life, . . . moreover her command had 
slain Sah-lflma! . . . Enough! . . no fate however hor¬ 
rible, could be more so than she in her wanton wicked¬ 
ness deserved! . . . But alas! her beauty! . . . He dared 
not think of its subtle, slumberous charm ! . . and stung 
to a new sense of desperation, he plunged recklessly 
toward the dusky aperture he had seen, which appeared 
to enlarge itself mysteriously as he approached, like the 
opening gateway of some magic cavern. 

Suddenly a faint groan at his feet startled him,—and, 
looking down hastily, he perceived an unfortunate man 
lying half crushed under the ponderous fragment of a split 
column, which had fallen across his body in such manner 
that any attempt to extricate him would have been worse 
than useless. By the bright light of the leaping flames, 
Theos had no difficulty in recognizing the pallid counte¬ 
nance of his late acquaintance, the learned Professor of 
Positivism, Mira-Khablir, who was evidently very near 
his woeful and most positive end! Struck by an im¬ 
pulse of compassion he paused, . . yet what could he say ? 
. . In such a case, where rescue was impossible, all com¬ 
fort seemed mockery,—and while he stood silent and ir¬ 
resolute, he fancied the Professor smiled! It was a very 
ghastly smile,—nevertheless it had in it a curious touch 
of bland and scrupulous inquiry. 

“ Is not this ... a very , , remarkable occurrence ? ° 

( 


886 


ARDATH 


. . . asked a voice so feeble and far away that it was 
difficult to believe it came from the lips of the suffering 
sage. “ Of course .... it arises from ... a volcanic 
eruption! . . . and the mystery of the red river . . is 
. . solved! ” Here an irrepressible moan of anguish 
broke through his heroic effort at equanimity ;—“ It is 
not a phenomenon! ” . . and a gleam of obstinate self- 
assertion lit up his poor glazing eyes, “Nothing is phe- 
onmenal! .... only I a ui not able . . . to explain . . . . 
I have no time ... no time ... to analyze . . my very 
. . . singular . . . sensations! ” 

A rush of blood choked his utterance—his throat rat¬ 
tled, ... he was dead! . . . and the dreary speculative 
smile froze on his mouth in the likeness of a solemn sneer. 
At that moment, a terrific swirling, surging noise, like 
the furious boiling of an underground whirlpool, rumbled 
heavily through the air, . . . and lo! with a sudden, swift 
shock that sent Theos reeling forward and almost falling, 
under the burdensome weight he carried, the earth 
opened, . . disclosing a huge pit of black nothingness,— 
an enormous chasm,—into which, with an appalling clamor 
as of a hundred incessant peals of thunder, the whole main 
area of the Temple, together with its mass of dead and 
dying human beings, sank in less than five seconds !—the 
ground closing instantaneously over its prey with a sullen 
roar, as though it were some gigantic beast devouring food 
too long denied. And instead of the vanished fane arose 
a mighty Pillar of Fire i o . a vast increasing volume of 
scarlet and gold flame that spread outward and upward,— 
higher and higher, in tapering lines and dome-like curves 
of living light, . . . while Theos, being hurled along 
xesistlessly by the force of the convulsion, had reached, 
though he knew not how, the dark and quiet cell-like por¬ 
tal with its out-leading steps, . . the only visible last hope 
and chance of safety, . . and he now leaned against its 
cold stone arch, trembling in every limb, clasping the 
dead Sah-lftma close, and looking back in affrighted awe 
at the tossing vortex of fury from which he had miracu¬ 
lously escaped. And,—as he looked,—a host of spectral 
faces seemed to rise whitely out of the flames and wonder 
at him! . . faces that were solemn, wistful, warning, and 
beseeching by turns! . . . they drifted through the fire 
and smiled, and wept, and vanished, to reappear again 
and yet again! . .and as, with painfully beating heart, h© 



ARDATH. 


387 


strode to combat the terror that seized him at this strange 
spectacular delusion, all suddenly the heavy wreaths of 
smoite that had till now hung over the Inner Shrine of 
Nag&ya parted like drapery drawn aside from a picture . . 
and for a brief breathing space of direst agony he saw 
Lysia once more,—Lysia, in a torture as horrible as any 
ever depicted in a bigot’s idea of his enemy’s Hell! Round 
and round her writhing form the sacred Serpent was 
twined in all his many coils,—with both hands she had 
grasped the creature’s throat in her frenzy, striving to 
thrust back its quivering fangs from her breast, whereon 
the evil “ Eye of Raphon ” still gleamed distinctly with 
Its adamantine chilly stare, . . at her feet lay the body of 
ihe King her lover, dead and wrapped in a ring of flames ! . 
Alone—all, all alone, she confronted Death in its most 
appalling shape . . her countenance was distorted, yet 
beautiful still with the beauty of a maddened Medusa, . . 
white and glittering as a fair ghost invoked from some 
deadly gulf of pain, she stood, a phantom-figure of min¬ 
gled loveliness and horror, circled on every side by fire! 

With wild, straining eyes Theos gazed upon her thus, 
... for the last time! . . . For with a crash that seemed 
to rend the very heavens, the great bronze columns sur¬ 
rounding her, which had, up to the present, resisted the 
repeated onslaughts of the flames, bent together all at 
once and fell in a melting ruin . . and the victorious fire 
roared loudly above them, enveloping the whole Shrine 
anew in dense clouds of smoke and jets of flame,—Lysia 
had perished! All that proud loveliness, that dazzling 
supremacy, that superb voluptuousness, that triumphant 
dominion, . . swept away into a heap of undiscoverable 
ashes! And Zephoranim’s haughty spirit too had fled,— 
fled, stained with guilt and most unroyal dishonor, all for 
the sake of one woman’s fairness—the fairness of body 
only—the brilliant mask of flesh that too often hides the 
hideousness of a devil’s nature! 

For one moment Theos remained stupefied by the sheer 
horror of the catastrophe,—then, recalling his bewildered 
wits to his aid, he peered anxiously through the archway 
where he rested, . . there seemed to be a dim red glow 
at the end of the downward-leading steps, as well as a 
dusky azure tint, like a patch of midnight sky. The 
Temple was now nothing but a hissing shrieking pyramid 
pf flames,— the hot and blinding glare was almost top 


388 


ABB ATH. 


intense for nis eyes to endure,—yet so fascinated was he/ 
by the sublime terror and grandeur of the spectacle, that 
he could scarcely make up his mind to turn away from it! 
The thought of Sah-lftma, however, gave the needful spur 
to his flagging energies, and without pausing to consider 
where he might be going, he slowly and hesitatingly 
descended the steps before him, and presently reached 
,a sort of small open court paved with black marble. 
Here he tenderly laid his burden down,—a burden 
grown weightier with each moment of its bearing,— 
and letting his aching arms drop listlessly at his sides, he 
looked up dreamily,—not all at once comprehending the 
cause of the vast lurid light that crimsoned the air like a 
wide aurora borealis everywhere about him, . . . then,—- 
as the truth suddenly flashed on his mind, he uttered a 
loud, irrepressible cry of amazement and awe! 

Far as his gaze could see,—east, west, north, south, the 
whole city of Al-Kyris was in flames!—and the burning 
Temple of Nagaya was but a mere spark in the enormous 
breadth of the general conflagration! Palaces, domes, 
towers, and spires were tottering to red destruction, . . 
fire . . . fire everywhere! . nothing but fire,—save when 
a furious gust of scorching wind blew aside the masses 
of cindery smoke, and showed glimpses of sky and the 
changeless shining of a few cold quiet stars. He cast 
one desperate glance from earth to heaven, . . how was it 
possible to escape from this kindling furnace of utter 
annihilation! . . . Where all were manifestly doomed, 
how could he expect to be saved! And moreover, if Sah- 
lhma was indeed dead, what remained for him but to die 
also! 


******* 

Calming the frenzy of his thoughts by a strong effort, 
he began to vaguely wonder why and how it hap¬ 
pened that the place where he now was, . this small and 
insignificant court,—had so far escaped the fire, and was as 
cool and sombre as a sacred tomb set apart for some hero, 
... or Poet ? Poet!—The word acted as a stimulant to 
his tired struggling brain, and he all at once remembered 
what Sah-lhma had said to him at their first meeting: 
“ There is but one Poet in Al-Kyris* and I am he! ” 

O true* true! Only one Poet! . . Only one glory of 
the great city* that now served him as funeral pyrel— 


AUBATH. 


389 


only one name worth remembering in all its perishing 
history . . the name of Sah-lttma ! Sah-lftma, the beautiful, 
the gifted, the famous, the beloved, . . he was dead! 
This thought, in its absorbing painfulness, straightway 
drove out all others,—and Theos, who had carried his 
comrade’s corpse bravely and unshrinkingly through a 
fiery vortex of imminent peril, now sank on his knees all 
desolate and unnerved, his hot tears dropping fast on 
that fair, still, white face that he knew would never flush 
to the warmth of life again ! 

“ Sah-lftma! Sah-lfima! ” he whispered, “ My friend 
. . . My more than brother! Would I could have died 
for thee! . . . Would thou couldst have lived to fulfil 
the nobler promise of thy genius! . . Better far thou 
hadst been spared to the world than I! . . for I am 
Nothing, . . but thou wert Everything!” 

And taking the clay-cold hands in his own, he kissed 
them reverently, and, with an unconscious memory not 
born of his recent adventures, folded them on the dead 
Laureate’s breast in the fashion of a Cross. 

As he did this an icy spasm seemed to contract his 
heart, . . . seized by a sudden insufferable anxiety, he 
stared like one spell-bound into Sah-lfuna’s wide-open, 
fixed, and glassy eyes. Dead eyes! . . yet how full of 
mysterious significance! . . What— what was their weird 
secret, their imminent meaning! . . . Why did their 
dark and frozen depths appear to retain a strange, living 
undergleam of melting, sorrowful, beseeching sweetness ? 
. . like the eyes of one who prays to be remembered, 
though changed after long absence! What hot and terrible 
delirium was this that snatched at his whirling brain as 
he bent closer and closer over the marble quiet counte¬ 
nance, and studied with a sort of fierce intentness every line 
of those delicate, classic features, on which high thought 
had left so marked an impress of dignity and power! 
What a marvellous, half-reproachful, half-appealing smile 
lingered on the finely-curved set lips ! . . . How wonder¬ 
ful, how beautiful, how beloved beyond all words was 
this fair dead god of poesy on whom he gazed with such 
a passion of yearning! 

Stooping more and more, he threw his arms round the 
senseless form, and partly lifting it from the ground, 
brought the wax-pallid face nearer to his own . . so near 
that the cold mouth almost touched his, . . then filled 


390 


ARDATH. 


with an awful, unnamable misgiving, he scanned lii& 
murdered comrade’s perished beauty in puzzled, vague 
bewilderment, much as an ignorant dullard might per¬ 
plexedly scan the incomprehensible characters of some 
hieroglyphic scroll. And, as he looked, a sharp pang shot 
through him like a whizzing ball of fire, . . a convulsion 
of mental agony shook his limbs,—he could have shrieked 
aloud in the extremity of his torture, but the struggling 
cry died gasping in his throat. Still as stone he kept his 
strained, steadfast gaze fixed on Sah-lftma’s corpse, 
slowly absorbing the full horror of a tremendous Sug¬ 
gestion, that like a scorching lava-flood swept into every 
subtle channel of his brain. For the dead Sah-llXma?s 
eyes grew into the semblance of his own eyes! . . the dead 
Sah-lUmatsface smiled spectrally back at him in the image of 
his own face ! . . it icas as though he beheld the Picture of 
himself slain and reflected in a magician!s mirror! 
Round him the very heavens seemed given up to fire,— 
but he heeded it not,—the world might be at an end and 
the day of Judgment, proclaimed,—nothing would have 
stirred him from where he knelt, in that dreadful still¬ 
ness of mystic martyrdom, drinking in the gradual, glim¬ 
mering consciousness of a terrific Truth, . . the amazing, 
yet scarcely graspable solution of a supernatural Enigma, 

. . .an enigma through which, like a man lost in the 
depths of a dark forest, he had wandered up and down, 
seeking light, yet finding none! 

“ O God! ” he dumbly prayed. “ Thou, with whom all 
things are possible, give eyes to this blind trouble of my 
heart! I am but as a grain of dust before thee, .. a poor 
perishable atom, devoid of simplest comprehension! . . 
Do Thou of Thy supernal pity teach me what I must 
know! ” 

As he thought out this unuttered petition, a tense cord 
seemed to snap suddenly in his brain, ... a rush of tears 
came to his relief, and through their salt and bitter haze 
the face of Sah-lhma appeared to melt into a thin and 
spiritual brightness,—a mere aerial outline of what it had 
once been, .... the glazed dark eyes seemed to flash liv¬ 
ing lightning into his, . . the whole lost Personality of the 
dead Poet seemed to environ him with a mysterious, 
potent, incorporeal influence . . an influence that he felt 
lie must now or never repel, reject, and utterly resist ! . . . 
With a shuddering cry, he tore his reluctant arms away 


ART) A TIT. 


391 

from the beloved corpse, . . . with trembling, tender fin¬ 
gers he closed and pressed down the white eyelids of those 
love-expressive eyes, and kissed the broad poetic brow! 

* “ Whatever thou wert or art to me, Sah-lftma,” he mur¬ 

mured in sobbing haste,—“thou knowest that I loved 
thee, though now I leave thee! Farewell!”—and his 
voice broke in its strong agony—“ O how much easier to 
divide body from soul than part myself from thee! Sah- 
lftma, beloved Sah-lfiina! God give thee rest! .. God 
pardon thy sins,—and mine! ” 

And he pressed his lips once more on the folded rigid 
hands; . . . . as he did so, he inadvertently touched the 
writing-tablet that hung from the dead Laureate’s girdle. 
The red glow of the fire around him enabled him to see 
distinctly what was written on it, . . there were about 
twenty lines of verse, in exquisitely clear and fine cali- 
graphy, ... and, as he read, he knew them well, . . they 
were the last lines of the poem “ N’ourhcdma ” / 

He dared trust his own strength no longer, .... one 
wild, adoring, lingering, parting look at his dead rival in 
song, whom he had loved better than himself,—and then, 
—full of a nameless fear, he fled! . . fled recklessly, and 
with swift, mad fury as though demons followed in pur¬ 
suit, . . fled through the burning city, as a lost and fren¬ 
zied spirit might speed through the deserts of Hell! 
Everywhere about him resounded the crackling hiss of 
the flames, and the crash of falling buildings, . . mighty 
pinnacles and lofty domes melted and vanished before 
his eyes in a blaze of brilliant destruction! . . . . on—on 
he went, meeting confused, scattered crowds of people, 
whose rushing, white-garmented figures looked like ghosts 
flying before a storm, . . the cries and shrieks of women 
and children, and the groans of men were mingled with 
the restless roaring of lions and other wild beasts burnt 
out of their dens in the Royal Arena, the distant circle of 
which could be dimly seen, surrounded by fountain-like 
jets of fire. Some of these maddened animals ran against 
him, as he sped along the blazing thoroughfares,—but he 
made no attempt to avoid them, nor was he sensible of 
any other terror than that which was within himself and 
was purely mental. On! . . On!—Still on he went,—a 
desperate, lonely man, lost in a hideous nightmare of 
flame and fury, . . seeing nothing but one vast flying rout 
of molten red and gold, .. speaking to none,. . utterly 



392 


ABDA TIT. 


reckless as to his own fate, . . only impelled on and on, 
hut whither he knew not, nor cared to know! 

All at once his strength gave way . . . .his nerves 
seemed to break asunder like so many over-wound harp- 
strings, .... a sudden silvery clanging of bells rang in 
his ears, and with them came a sound of multitudinous 
soft, small voices : “Kyrie Eleison ! Eyrie Eleison /” 
**##### 

Hush! . . What was that ? . . What did it mean ? . 
Halting abruptly, he gave a wild glance round him,—up 
to the sky, where the flaring flames spread in tangled 
lengths and webs of lightj . . then, straight before him to 
the City of Al-Kyris, now a wondrous vision of redly lumi¬ 
nous columns and cupolas, with the wet gleam of the 
river enfolding its blazing streets and towers: . . . and 
while he yet beheld it, lo! It receded from his view ! 
Further, . . . further!—further away, till it seemed 
nothing but the toppling and smoldering of heavy clouds 
after the conflagration of the sunset! 

Hark, hark again! . . “ Eyrie Eleison ! . . Eyrie Elei¬ 
son!” With a sense of reeling rapture and awe he 
listened, ... he understood! . . . he found the Name 
he had so long forgotten! “Christ, have mercy upon 
me!” . . . he cried, and in that one urgent supplication 
he uttered all the pent-up anguish of his soul! Blind and 
dizzy with the fevered whirl of his own emotions, he 
stumbled forward and fell! .... fell heavily over a 
block of stone, . . stunned by the shock, he lost conscious¬ 
ness, but only for a moment; . . . a dull aching in his 
temples roused him,—and making a faint effort to rise, he 
turned slowly and languidly on his arm, . . . and with a 
long, deep, shuddering sigh .... AWOKE ! 

* * * ■ # # * * 

He was on the Field of Ardatli. Dawn had just broken. 
The east was one wide, shimmering stretch of warm gold, 
and over it lay strips of blue and gray, like fragments of 
tom battle-banners. Above him sparkled the morning 
star, white and glittering as a silver lamp, among the 
delicate spreading tints of saffron and green, . . . and 
beside him,—her clear, pure features flushed by the roseate 
splendor of the sky, her hands clasped on her breast, and 
her sweet eyes full of an infinite tenderness and yearning, 
knelt Edris !—Edris, his flower-crowned Angel, whom 
last he had seen drifting upward and away like a dove 
through the glory ofthe Cross in Heaven ] 



AM) ATI!. 


898 


CHAPTER XXX. 

SUNRISE. 

Entranced in amazed ecstasy he lay quite quiet, , . 
afraid to speak or stir ! This gentle Presence,—this fair, 
beseeching face, might vanish if he moved ! So he dimly 
fancied, as he gazed up at her in mute wonder and wor-, 
ship, his devout eyes drinking in her saintly loveliness, ' 
from the deep burnished gold of her hair to the soft, white 
slimness of her prayerfully folded hands. And while he 
looked, old thoughts like home-returning birds began to 
hover round his soul,—sweet and dear remembrances, like 
the sunset lighting up the windows of an empty house, 
began to shine on the before semi-darkened nooks and 
crannies of his brain. Clearer and clearer grew the re¬ 
flecting mirror of his consciousness,—trouble and per¬ 
plexity seemed passing away forever from his mind, . . a 
great and solemn peace environed him, . . and he began 
to believe he had crossed the boundary of death and had 
entered at last into the Kingdom of Heaven! 0 let him 

not break this holy silence! . . Let him rest so, with 
all the glory of that Angel-visage shed like summer sun¬ 
beams over him! . . Let him absorb into his innermost 
being the exquisite tenderness of those innocent, hopeful, 
watchful, starry eyes whose radiance seemed to steal into 
the golden morning and give it a sacred poetry and infi¬ 
nite marvel of meaning! So he mused, gravely contented, 
.... while all through the brightening skies overhead, 
came the pale, pink flushing of the dawn, like a far flutter¬ 
ing and scattering of rose-leaves. Everything was so still 
that he could hear his own heart beating forth healthful 
and regular pulsations,. . » . but he was scarcely con¬ 
scious of his own existence,—he was only aware of the 
vast, beautiful, halcyon calm that encircled him shelter- 
ingly and soothed all care away. 

Gradually, however, this deep and delicious tranquillity 
began to yield to a sweeping rush of memory and compre¬ 
hension, .... he knew who he was and where he was,— 
though he did not as yet feel absolutely certain of life and 
life’s so-called realities. For if the City of Al-Ryris, with 


394 


ARDATH. 


all its vivid wonders, its'distinct experiences, its brilliant 
pageantry, had been indeed a Dream, then surely it was 
possible he might be dreaming still! . . . . Nevertheless 
he was able to gather up the fragments of lost recollection 
consecutively enough to realize, by gentle degrees, his 
actual identity and position in the world, . . he was Theos 
Alwyn , . . a man of the nineteenth century after Christ. 
Ah! thank God for that! . . After Christ! . . not one 
who had lived five thousand years before Christ’s birth! 

..And this quiet, patient Maiden at his side, . . 

who was she ? A vision ? . . or an actually existent 
Being? Unable to resist the craving desire of his heart, 
he spoke her name as he now remembered it, . . spoke it 
in a faint, awed whisper. 

“ Edris! ” 

“ Theos, my Beloved! ” 

O sweet and thrilling voice! more musical than the 
Binging of birds in a sun-filled Spring ! 

He raised himself a little, and looked at her more in¬ 
tently :—she smiled,—and that smile, so marvellous in its 
pensive peace and lofty devotion, was as though all the 
light of an unguessed paradise had suddenly flashed upon 
his soul! 

“ Edris! ” he said again, trembling in the excess of 
mingled hope and fear . . . “Hast thou then returned 
again from heaven, to lift me oUt of darkness ? . . Tell 
me', fair Angel, do I wake or sleep? . . Are my senses 
deceived? Is this land a dream? . . Am I myself a 
dream, and thou the only manifest sweet Truth in a world 
of drifting shadows! . . Speak to me, gentle Saint! . . In 
what vast mystery have I been engulfed ? . . in what 
timeless trance of soul-bewilderment? . . in what blind 
uncertainty and pain ? . . . O Sweet! . resolve my word¬ 
less wonder! Where have I strayed ? . . what have I 
seen ? . . Ah, let not my rough speech fright thee back to 
Paradise! . . Stay with me! . . comfort me! . . I have 
lost thee so long! let me not lose thee now ! ” 

Smiling still, she bent over him, and pressed her warm, 
delicate fingers lightly on his brow and lips. Then softly 
she rose and stood erect. 

“Fear nothing, my beloved! ” she answered, her silvery 
accents sending a throb of holy triumph through the air . , 
“Let no trouble disquiet thee, and no shadow of misgiv¬ 
ing dim the brightness of thy waking moments! Thou 




ABDA TH. 


395 


hast slept one night on the Field of Ardath, in the Valley 
of. Vision!—but lo! the Night is past!” . . and she 
pointed toward the eastern horizon now breaking into 
waves of rosy gold, “ Rise! and behold the dawning of 
thy new Day ! ” 

Roused by her touch, and fired by her tone and the 
grand, unworldly dignity of her look and bearing, he 
sprang up, .... but as he met the full, pure splendor 
of her divine eyes, and saw, wavering round her hair, a 
shining aureole of amber radiance like a wreath of w r oven 
sunbeams, his spirit quailed within him, .... he re¬ 
membered all his doubts of her,—his disbelief, . . . and 
falling at her feet, he hid his face in a shame that was 
better than all glory,—a humiliation that was sweeter 
than all pride. 

“Edris! Immortal Edris ! ” . . he passionately prayed, 
“ As thou art a crowned, saint in Heaven, shed light on 
the chaos of my soul! From the depths of a penitence 
past thought and speech I plead with thee! Hear me, 
my Edris, thou who art so maiden-meek, so tender- 
patient ! . . hear me, help me, guide me .... I am all 
thine! Say, didst thou not summon me to meet thee here 
upon this wondrous Field of Ardath?—did I not come 
hither according to thy words?—and have I not seen things 
that I am not able to express or understand ? Teach me, 
wise and beloved one! . . I doubt no more! I know My¬ 
self and Thee:—thou art an angel,—but I! . . alas, what 
am I ? A grain of sand in thy sight and in God’s, . . a 
mere Nothing, comprehending nothing,—unable even to 
realize the extent of my own nothingness! Edris, O 
Edris ! . . thou canst not love me! . . thou mayst pity 
me perchance, and pardon, and bless me gently in Christ’s 
dear Name! . . . but love! . . Thy love! . . Oh let me 
not aspire to such heights of joy, where I have no place, 
no right, no worthiness ! ” 

“No worthiness! ” echoed Edris ! . . . what a rapture 
trembled through her sweet caressing voice !—“ My 
Theos, who is so worthy to win back what is thine own, 
as thou? All Heaven has wondered at thy voluntary 
exile,—thy place in God’s supernal Sphere has long been 
vacant, . . . thy right to dwell there, none have ques¬ 
tioned, . . . thy throne is empty—thy crown unclaimed! 
Thou art an Angel even as I! . . but thou art in bonds 
'While I am free! Ah, how sad and strange ft is to mo 


396 ARDATU. 

to see thee here thus fettered to the Sorrowful Star/ 
when, countless aeons since, thou mightest have enjoyed 
full liberty in the Eternal Light of the everlasting Par¬ 
adise ! ” 

He listened, ... a strong, sweet hope began to kindle 
in him like flame, . . but he made no answer. Only he 
caught and kissed the edge of her garment, . . its soft 
gray cloudy texture brushed his lips with the odorous 
coolness of a furled roseleaf. She seemed to tremble at 
his action, . . . but he dared not look up. Presently he 
felt the pulsing pressure of her hands upon his head, and 
a rush of strange, warm vigor thrilled through his veins 
like an electric flash of new and never-ending life. 

“ Thou wouldst seek after and know the truth! ” she 
said, “ Truth Celestial,—Truth Unchangeable, . . Truth 

that permeates and underlies all the mystic inward work¬ 
ings of the Universe, . . workings and secret laws un¬ 
guessed by Man! Vast as Eternity is this Truth,—un- 
graspable in all its manifestations by the merely mortal 
intelligence, . . . nevertheless thy spirit, being chastened 
to noble humility and repentance, hath risen to new 
heights of comprehension, whence thou canst partly pen¬ 
etrate into the wonders of worlds unseen. Did I not tell 
thee to ‘ learn from the perils of the Past , the perils of the 
Future ’—and understandest thou not the lesson of tbe 
Vision of Al-Kyris ? Thou hast seen the Dream-reflec¬ 
tion of thy former Poet-fame and glory in old time,— 
thou wert Sah-lUma ! ” 

An agony of shame possessed him as he heard. His 
soul at once seized the solution of the mystery, . . his 
quickened thought plunged plummet-like straight through 
the depths of the bewildering phantasmagoria, in which 
mtere reason had been of no practical avail, and straight¬ 
way sounded its whole seemingly complex, but actually 
simple meaning! He was Sah-hlma! . . or rather, he 
had been Sah-lflma in some far stretch of long-receded 
time, . . . and in his Dream of a single night, he had 
loved the brilliant Phantom of his Former Self more than 
his own present Identity! Not less remarkable was the 
fact that, in this strange Sleep-Mirage, he had imagined 
himself to be perfectly un selfish, whereas all the while 
he had honored, flattered, and admired the mere Appear ¬ 
ance of Himself more than anything or everything in the 
world! Ay!—em his occasional reluctant reproaches 


ARB ATE. 397 

to Himself in the ghostly impersonation of Sah-lftma had 
been far more tender than severe ! 

O deep and bitter ingloriousness! . . O speechless deg¬ 
radation of all the higher capabilities of Man! to love 
one’s own ephemeral Shadow-Existence so utterly as to 
exclude from thought and sympathy all other things 
whether human or divine! And was it not possible that 
this Spectre of Self might still be clinging to him ? Was 
it dead with the Dream of Sah-lfuna? . . or had Sah- 
lfima never truly died at all ? . . and was the fine, fire- 
spun Essence that had formed the Spirit of the Laureate 
of Al-Kyris yet part of the living Substance of his present 
nature, . . he, a world-unrecognized English poet of the 
nineteenth century ? Did all Sah-lftma’s light follies, idle 
passions, and careless cruelties remain inherent in him ? 
Had he the same pride of intellect, the same vain-glory, 
the same indifference to God and Man ? Oh, no, no! . . 
he shuddered at the thought! . . and his head sank 
lower and lower beneath the benediction touch of Her 
whose tenderness revived his noblest energies, and lit 
anew in his heart the pure, bright fire of heaven-eficom- 
passiMg Aspiration. 

“ Thou icert Sah-Mma! ” went on the mildly earnest 
voice, “And all the wide, ungrudging fame given to 
Earth’s great poets in ancient days, was thine! Thy 
name was on all men’s mouths, . . . thou wert honored 
by kings, . . thou wert the chief glory of a great 
people, . . great though misled by their own false opin¬ 
ions, . . and the City of Al-Kyris, of which thou wert the 
enshrined jewel, was mightier far than any now built 
upon the earth ! Christ had not come to thee, save by 
dim types and vague prefigurements which only praying 
prophets could discern, . . but God had spoken to thy 
soul in quiet moments, and thou wouldst neither hear 
Him nor believe in Him! I had called thee, but thou 
wouldst not listen, . . thou didst foolishly prefer to 
hearken to the clamorous tempting of thine own beguil¬ 
ing human passions, and wert altogether deaf to an Angel’s 
whisper! Things of the earth earthly gained dominion 
over thee ... by them thou wert led astray, deceived, 
and at last forsaken, ... the genius God gave thee thou 
didst misuse and indolently waste, . . thy brief life came, 
as thou hast seen, to sudden-piteous end,—and the proud 
City of thy dwelling was destroyed by fire! Not a trace 


398 


ARDATH. 


of it was left to mark the spot where once it stood: the 
foundations of Babylon were laid above it, and no man 
guessed that it had ever been. And thy poems,.. . the 
fruit of thy heaven-sent but carelessly accepted inspira¬ 
tion,—who is there that remembers them? .... No 
one! . . save Thou! Thou hast recovered them like 
sunken pearls from the profound ocean of limitless 
Memory, . . and to the world of To-day thou dost repeat 
the self-same music to which Al-Kyris listened entranced 
so many thousands of generations ago ! ” 

A deep sigh, that was half a groan, broke from his 
lips, ... he could now take the measurement of his own 
utter littleness and incompetency! He could create 
nothing new ! Everything he had written, as he fancied 
only just lately, had been written by himself before! 
The problem of the poem “ JVourhalma ” . . was ex¬ 
plained, . . he had designed it when he had played his 
part on the stage of life as Sah-liima,—and perhaps not 
even then for the first time! In this pride-crushing 
knowledge there was only one consolation, . . . namely, 
that if his Dream was a true reflection of his Past, and 
exact in details as he felt it must be, then “ Nourhalmaf 
had not been given to Al-Kyris, ... it had been com¬ 
posed, but not made public. Hence, so far, it was new to 
the world, though not new to himself. Yet he had con¬ 
sidered it wondrously new! a “perfectly original” 
idea ! . . . Ah! who dares to boast of any idea as humanly 
“ original ” . . seeing that all ideas whatsoever must be 
referred back to God and admitted as His and His only ! 
What is the wisest man that ever lived, but a small, pale, 
ill-reflecting mirror of the Eternal Thought that controls 
and dominates all things! . . He remembered with con¬ 
science-stricken confusion what pleasure he had felt, what 
placid satisfaction, what unqualified admiration, when 
listening to his own works recited by the ghost-present¬ 
ment of his Former Self! . . pleasure that had 
certainly exceeded whatever pain he had suffered by the 
then enigmatical and perplexing nature of the incident. 
O what a foolish Atom he now seemed, viewed by the 
standard of his newly aroused higher consciousness! . . 
how poor and passive a slave to the glittering, beckoning 
Phantasm of his own perishable Fame ! 

Thus on the Field of Ardath he drained the cup of hu¬ 
mility to the dregs,—the cup which like that offered to 



ARDATH. 


399 


the Prophet of Holy Writ was u full as it were with water , 
but the color X>f it was like fire ”—the water of tears . . 
the fire of faith, . . and with that prophet he might have 
said . . “ When I had drunk of it, my heart uttered under¬ 
standing, and wisdom grew in my breast, for my spirit 
strengthened mu memory .” 

Meanwhile Edris, still keeping her gentle hands on his 
bent head, went on : 

“ In such wise didst thou, my Beloved, as the famous 
Sah-lftma, mournfully perish. . and the nations remem¬ 
bered thee no more! But thy spiritual, indestructible 
Essence lived on, and wandered dismayed and forlorn 
through a myriad forms of existence in the depths of 
Perpetual Darkness which must be, even as the Everlasting 
Light is. Thy immortal but perverted Will bore thee 
always further from God, . . further from Him, and so 
far from me, that thou wert at times beyond even an 
Angel’s ken! Ages upon ages rolled away, . . the cen¬ 
turies between Earth and Earth’s purposed redemption 
passed, . . . and, . . though in Heaven these measured 
spaces of time that appear so great to men are as a mere 
world’s month of summer, . . still, to me, for once God’s 
golden days seemed long! I had lost thee / Thou wert 
my soul’s other soul. . my king!—my immortality’s com¬ 
pletion ! . . and though thou wert, alas! a fallen bright¬ 
ness, yet I held fast to my one hope, . . the hope in thy 
diviner nature, which, though sorely overcome, was not, 
and could not be wholly destroyed. I knew the fate in 
store for thee, . . I knew that thou with other erring 
spirits wert bound to live again on earth when Christ had 
built His Holy Way therefrom to Heaven,—and never did 
I cease for thy dear sake to wait and watch and pray! 
At last I found thee, . . . but ah! how I trembled for thy 
destiny! To thee had been delivered, as to all the children 
of men, the final message of salvation. . the Message of 
Love and Pardon which made all the angels wonder! . . 
but thou didst utterly reject it—and with the same will¬ 
ful arrogance of thy former self, Sah-lhma, thou wert 
blindly and desperately turning anew into darkness! O 
my Beloved, that darkness might have been eternal! . 
and crowded with memories dating from the very begin¬ 
ning of life! . . Nay, let me not speak of that Supernal 
Agony, since Christ hath died to quench its terrors ! . . . . 
Enough!—by happy chance, through my desire, thine own 



400 


AEDATB. 


roused better will, and the strength of one who hath many 
friends in Heaven, thy spirit was released, to temporary 
liberty, . . and in thy vision at Dariel, which was no vis¬ 
ion, but a Truth, I bade thee meet me here. And why ? . , 
Solely to test thy power of obedience to a divine impulse 
unexplainable by human reason ,—and I rejoiced as only 
angels can rejoice, when of thine own Free-Will thou didst 
keep the tryst I made with thee! Yet thou knewest me 
not! . . or rather thou wouldst not know me , . , till I left 
thee! . . ’Tis ever the way of mortals, to doubt their 
angels in disguise! ” 

Her sweet accents shook with a liquid thrill suggestive 
of tears,—but he was silent. It seemed to him that he 
would be well content to hold his place forever, if for¬ 
ever he might hear her thus melodiously speak on! Had 
she not called him her “ other soul, her king, her immor¬ 
tality’s completion ! ”—and on those wondrous words of 
hers his spirit hung, impassioned, dazzled, and entranced 
beyond all Time and Space and Nature and Experience ! 

After a brief pause, during which his ravished mind 
floated among the thousand images and vague feelings of 
a whole Past and Future merged in one splendid and cel¬ 
estial Present, she resumed, always softly and with the* 
same exquisite tenderness of tone: 

“ I left thee, Dearest, but a moment, . . . and in that 
moment, He who hath himself shared in human sorrows 
and sympathies,—He who is the embodiment of the Es¬ 
sence of God’s Love,—came to my aid. Plunging thy 
senses in deep sleep, as hath been done before to many a 
saint and prophet of old time here on this very field of 
Ardath,—he summoned up before thee the phantoms of a 
portion of thy Past, . . . phantoms which, to thee, seemed 
far more real than the living presence of thy faithful 
Edris! . . alas, my Beloved! . . thou art not the only 
one on the Sorrowful Star who accepts a Dream for 
Reality and rejects Reality as a Dream! ” 

She paused again,—and again continued : “ Neverthe¬ 
less, in some degree thy Vision of Al-Kyris was true, in¬ 
asmuch as thou wert shown therein as in a mirror, one 
phase, one only of thy former existence upon earth. Tlis 
final episode was chosen,—as by the end of a man’s days 
alone shall he be judged! As much as thy dreaming- 
siglit was able to see,—as much as thy brain was able to 
bear, appeared before thee, . , . but that thou, slumber- 


ARDATH. 


401 


ing, wert yet a conscious Personality among Phantoms, 
and that these phantoms spoke to thee, charmed thee, be¬ 
wildered thee, tempted thee, and swayed thee, . . this was 
the Divine Masters work upon thine own retrospective 
Thought and Memory. He gave the shadows of thy by¬ 
gone life, seeming color, sense, motion, and speech,—lie 
blotted out from thy remembrance His own Most Holy 
Name, . . and, shutting up the Present from thy gaze, 
He sent thy spirit back into the Past. There, thou, per¬ 
plexed and sorrowful, didst painfully re-weave the last 
fragments of thy former history, . . and not till thou 
liadst abandoned the /Shadow of Thyself didst thou escape 
from the fear of destruction! Then, when apparently all 
alone, and utterly forsaken, a cloud of angels circled round 
thee, . . then, at thy first repentant cry for help, He who 
has never left an earnest prayer unanswered bade me 
descend hither, to waken and comfort thee! . . . Oh, 
never was His bidding more joyously obeyed! Now I 
have plainly shown thee the interpretation of thy 
Dream, . . and dost thou not comprehend the intention 
of the Highest in manifesting it unto thee ? Remember 
the words of God’s Prophet of old: 

“ ‘ Behold the Field thou thoughtest barren, how great a glory hath 
the moon unveiled! 

“ ‘ And I beheld and was sore amazed, for I was no longer Myself 
but Another. 

“ ‘ And the sword of death was in that Other’s soul,—and yet that 
Other was but Myself in pain: 

“ ‘ And I knew not the things which wc;e once familiar, and my 
neart failed within me for very fear! ’ ” 

She spoke the quaint and mystic lines with a grave, 
pure, rhythmic utterance that was like the far-off singing 
of sweet psalmody;—and when she ceased, the stillness 
that followed seemed quivering with the rich vibrations 
of her voice, . . . the very air was surely rendered softei 
and more delicate by such soul-moving sound! 

But Theos, who had listened dumbly until now, began 
to feel a sudden sorrowful aching at his heart, . . a sense of 
coming desolation, . . a consciousness that she would soon 
depart again, and leave him : and, with a mingled reverence 
and passion, lie ventured to draw one of the fair hands 
that rested on his brows, down into his own clasp. He 
met with no resistance, and half-happy, half-agonized, he 
pressed his lips upon its soft and dazzling whiteness, 
26 


402 


ARDATH. 


while the longing of his soul broke forth in words of' 
fervid, irrepressible appeal. 

“Edris! ” he implored . . “If thou dost love me give 
me my death ! Here,—now, at thy feet where I kneel! . . 
of what avail is it for me to struggle in this dark and dif -' 
ficult world ? . . 9 deprive me of this fluctuating breath 
called Life and let me live indeed! I understand . . I 
know all thou hast said,—I have learned my own sins as 
in a glass darkly,—I have lived on earth before, and as it 
seems, made no good use of life, . . . and now : now I have 
found Thee! Then why must I lose thee ? . thou who 
earnest to me so sweetly at the first ? . . Nay, I cannot part 
from thee—I will not! . . If thou leavest me, I have no 
strength to follow thee; I shall but miss the way to thine 
abode!” 

“ Thou canst not miss the way! ”—responded Edris 
softly, . . “ Look up, my Theos,—be of good cheer, thou 
Poet to whom Heaven’s greatest gifts of Song are now ac¬ 
corded ! Look up and tell me, . , i* a not the way made 
plain?” 

Slowly and in reverential fear, he obeyed, and raised his 
eyes, still holding her by the hand,—and saw behind her 
a distinctly marked shadow that seemed flung downward 
by the reflection of some brilliant light above, . . the 
shadow of a Cross, against which her delicate figure stood 
forth in shining outlines. Seeing, he understood,—but 
nevertheless his mind grew more and more disquieted. A 
thousand misgivings crowded upon him,—he thought of the 
world, . . he remembered what it was,.. he was living in an 
age of heresy and wanton unbelief, where not only Christ’s 
Divinity was made blasphemous mock of, but where even 
God’s existence was itself called in question . . and as for 
angels / .... a sort of shock ran through his nerves as 
he reflected that though preachers preached concerning 
these supernatural beings,—though the very birth of 
Christ rested on Angels’ testimony,—though poets wrote 
of them, and painters strove to delineate them on their 
most famous canvases, each and all thus practically de¬ 
monstrating the secret instinctive intuition of Humanity 
that such celestial Forms are, —yet it was most absolutely 
certain that not a man in the prosaic nineteenth century 
would, if asked, admit,to any actual belief in their existence J 
Inconsistent ? . . yes !—but are not men more inconsistent 
than the very beasts of the field their tyranny controls) 


ADD A Til. 


403 


What, as a rule, do men believe in ? . . . Themselves ! . . 
only themselves! They are, in their own opinion, the Be- 
All and the End-All of everything! . . as if the Supreme 
Creative Force called God were incapable of designing any 
Higher Form of Thinking-Life than their pigmy bodies 
which strut on two legs and, with two eyes and a small, 
quickly staggered brain, profess to understand and weigh 
the whole foundation and plan of the Universe! 

Growing swiftly conscious of all that in the Purgatory of 
the Present awaited him, Theos felt as though the earth- 
chasm that had swallowed up Al-Kyris in his dream had 
opened again before him, affrighting him with its black 
depth of nothingness and annihilation,—and in a sudden 
agony of self-distrust he gazed yearningly at the-fair, 
wistful face above him, . . the divine beauty that was his 
after all, if he only knew how to claim it!—Something, 
he knew not what, filled him with a fiery restlessness,—a 
passion of protest and aspiration, which for a moment was 
so strong that it seemed to him he must, with one fierce 
effort, wrench himself free from the trammels of mortal¬ 
ity, and straightway take upon him the majesty of 
immortal nature, and so bear his Angel love company 
whithersoever she went! Never had the fetters of flesh 
weighed upon him with such-heaviness! . . but, in spite 
of his feverish longing to escape, some authoritative yet 
gentle Force held him prisoner. 

“ God! ” he muttered . . “ Why am I thus bound ?— 
why can I not be free ? ” 

“ Because thy time for freedom has not come! ” said 
Edris, quickly answering his thought . . “ Because thou 
hast work to do that is not yet done! Thy poet labors 
have, up till now, been merely repetition , . . . the repeti¬ 
tion of thy Former Self, . . Go! the tired world waits 
for a new Gospel of Poesy, . . a new song that shall rouse 
it from its apathy, and bring it closer unto God and all 
things high and fair! Write !—for the nations wait for 
a trumpet-voice of Truth! . . the great poets are dead, . . 
their spirits are in Heaven, . . and there is none to re¬ 
place them on the Sorrowful Star save Thou! Not for 
Fame do thy work—nor for Wealth, . . but for Love and 
the Glory of God!—for Love of Humanity, for Love of 
the Beautiful, the Pure, the Holy! . . let the race of men 
hear one more faithful Apostle of the Divine Unseen, ere 
Earth is lost in the withering light of a larger Creation! 


404 


All DATII. 


Go! . . perform thy long-neglected mission,—that mission 
of all poets worthy the name . . to raise the world l Thou 
shalt not lack strength nor fervor, so long as thou dost 
write for the benefit of others. Serve God and live!— 
serve Self and die ! . Such is the Eternal Law of Spheres 
Invisible, . . . the less thou seest of Self, the more thou 
seest of Heaven! . thrust Self away, and lo ! God invests 
thee with His Presence! Go forth into the world, . a 
King uncrowned, ... a Master of Song, . and fear not 
that I, Edris, will forsake thee,—I, who have loved thee 
since the birth of Time! ” 

He met her beautiful, luminous, inspired eyes, with a 
sad interrogativeness in his own. What a hard fate was 
meted out to him ! . . To teach the world that scoffed at 
teaching!—to rouse the gold-thirsting mass of men to a 
new sense of things divine! O vain task!—O dreary 
impossibility! . . Enough surely, to guide his own Will 
aright, without making any attempt to guide the wills of 
others! 

Her mandate seemed to him almost cruel,—it was like 
driving him into a howling wilderness, when with one 
touch, one kiss, she might transport him into Paradise ! 
If she were in the world, . if she were always with him . . 
ah! then how different, how easy life would be! Again 
he thought of those strange entrancing words of hers . . 
“ My other soul, . . my king . . my immortality’s com¬ 
pletion ! ”—and a sudden wild idea took swift possession 
of his brain. 

“ Edris! ” he cried . . “ If I may not yet come to thee, 
then come thou to me ! . . Dwell thou with me! . . O by 
the force of my love, which God knoweth, let me draw 
thee, thou fair Light, into my heart’s gloom ! Hear me 
while I swear my faith to thee as at some holy shrine! 
.... As I live, with all my soul I do accept thy Master 
Christ, as mine utmost good, and His Cross as my 
proudest glory! . . but yet, bethink thee, Edris, bethink 
thee of this world,—its wilful sin, its scorn of God, and 
all the evil that like a spreading tliunder-cloud darkens 
it day by day! Oh, wilt thou leave me desolate and 
alone ? . . . Fight as I will, I shall often sink under 
blows, . . conquer as I may, I shall suffer the solitude of 
conquest, unless thou art with me! Oh, speak!—is there 
no deeper divine intention in the marvellous destiny 
that has brought us together ?—thou, pure Spirit, and I, 


ARDATII. 


405 


weak Mortal ? Has love, the primal mover of all things, 
no hold upon thee ? . . If I am, as thou sayest, thy Be¬ 
loved, loved by thee so long, even while forgetful of and 
unworthy of thy love, can I not now ,—now when I am 
all thine,—persuade thee to compassionate the rest of my 
brief life on earth ? . . Thou art in woman’s shape here 
on this Field of Ardath,—and yet thou art not woman! 
Oh, could my love constrain thee in God’s Name, to wear 
the mask of mortal body for my sake, would not our 
union even now make the Sorrowful Star seem fair ? . , 
Love, love, love! Come to mine aid, and teach me how 
to shut the wings of this sweet bird of paradise in mine 
own breast! . . . God! Spare her to me for one of Thy 
sweet moments which are our mortal years! . . Christ, 
who became a mere child for pity of us, let me learn from 
Thee the mystic spell that makes Thine angel mine ! ” 
Carried away by his own forceful emotion he hardly 
knew what he said, . . but an unspeakable, dizzy joy 
flooded his soul, as he caught the look she gave him! . . 
a wfld, sweet, amazed, half-tender, half-agonized, wholly 
human look, suggestive of the most marvellous possibili¬ 
ties ! One effort and she released her hand from his, and 
moved a little apart, her eyes kindling with celestial sym¬ 
pathy in which there was the very faintest touch of self¬ 
surrender. Self-surrender ? . what! from an Angel to a 
mortal ? . . Ah no! .it could not be,—yet he felt filled 
all at once with a terrible sense of power that at the same 
time was mingled with the deepest humility and fear. 

“ Hush! ”—she said, and her lovely, low voice was trem¬ 
ulous,—“ Hush!—Thou dost speak as if we were already 
in God’s World! I love thee, Theos! . and truly, because 
thou art prisoned here, I love the sad Earth also! . . but 
dost thou think to what thou wouldst so eagerly persuade 
me ? To live a mortal life ? . . to die ? . . to pass through 
the darkest phase of world-existence known in all the teem¬ 
ing spheres? Nay!” . . and a look of pathetic sorrow 
came over her face . . “ How could I, even for thee, my 
; Theos, forsake my home in Heaven ? ” 

Her last words were half-questioning, half-hesitating, 

. . her manner was as of one in doubt . . and Theos, % 
kneeling still, surveyed her in worshipping silence. Then 
he suddenly remembered what the Monk and Mystic, 
Heliobas, had said to him at Dariel on the morning after 
his trance of soul-liberty: . , “If, as I conjecture, you hav« 


406 


ARDATH. 


seen one of the fair inhabitants of higher spheres than 
ours, you would not drag her spiritual and death-uncon¬ 
scious brightness down to the level of the ‘ reality ’ of a 
mere human life ? . . Nay, if you would you could not! ” 
And now, strange to say, he felt that he could but would 
not; and he was overcome with remorse and penitence 
for the egotistical nature of his own appeal. 

“ My love—my life! ” he said brokenly,—“ Forgive me, 
—forgive my selfish prayer! . Self spoke,—not I, . . yet 
I had thought Self dead, and buried forever! ” A faint 
sigh escaped him . . . “ Believe me, Sweet, I would not 
have thee lose one hour of Heaven’s ecstasies, . . I would 
not have thee saddened by Earth’s wilful miseries, . . . 
no! not even for that lightning-moment which numbers 
up man’s mortal days! Speed back to Angel-land, my 
Edris!—I will love thee till I die, and leave the Afterward 
to Christ. Be glad, thou fairest, dearest One \ . unfurl 
thy rainbow wings and fly from me! . . and wander sing¬ 
ing through the groves of Heaven, making all Heaven 
musical, . . perchance in the silence of the night I may 
catch the echo of thy voice and fancy thou art near! And 
trust me, Edris! . trust me! . . for my faith will not 
falter, . . . my hope shall not waver, . . . and though in 
the world I may, I must have tribulation, yet will I believe 
in Him who hath by simple love overcome the world! ” 

He ceased, . . a great quiet seemed to fall upon him,— 
the quiet of a deep and passive resignation. 

Edris drew nearer to him,—timidly as a shy bird, yet 
with a wonderful smile quivering on her lips, and in the 
clear depths of her starry eyes. Very gently she placed 
her arms about his neck and looked down at him with 
divinely compassionate tenderness. 

“ Thou beloved one! ” she said, “ Thou whose spirit was 
formerly equal to mine, and to all angels, in God’s sight, 
though through pride it fell! Learn that thou art nearer 
to me now than thou hast been for a myriad ages! . . 
between us are renewed the strong, sweet ties that shall 
nevermore be broken, unless . . ” and her voice faltered, 
—“ Unless thou, of thine own Free Will, break them again 
in spite of all my prayers! For, because thou art immortal 
even as I, though thou art pent up in mortality, even so 
must thy Will remain immortally unfettered, and what 
thou dost firmly elect to do, God will not prevent. The 
Dream Of thjr Past was a lesson, not a command,-<-thoq 




407 


art free to forget or remember it as thou wilt while on 
earth, since it is only after Death that Memory is inefface¬ 
able, and, with its companion Remorse, constitutes Hell. 
Obey God, or disobey Him,—He will not force thee either 
way, . . constrained love hath no value ! Only this is the 
Universal Law,—that whosoever disobeys, his disobedi¬ 
ence recoils on his own head as of Necessity it must ,— 
whereas obedience is the working in perfect harmony 
with all Nature, and of equal Necessity brings its own 
reward. Cling to the Cross for one moment . . the mo¬ 
ment called by mortals, Life, . . . and it shall lift thee 
straightway into highest Heaven ! There will I wait for 
thee,—and there thou shalt make me thine own forever ! ” 

He sighed and gazed at her wistfully. 

“ Alas, my Edris! . . Not till then ? ” he murmured. 

She bent over him and kissed his forehead,—a caress 
as brief and light as the passing flutter of a bird’s wing. 

“Not till then ! ”—she whispered—“ Unless the long¬ 
ing of thy love compels ! ” 

He started. What did she mean ? . . His eyes flashed 
eager inquiry into hers, so soft and brilliantly clear, with 
the light of an eternal peace dwelling in their liquid, 
.'mysterious loveliness,—and meeting his questioning look, 
the angelic smile brightened more gloriously round her 
lips. But there was now something altogether unearthly 
in her beauty, . . . a wondrous inward luminousness began 
to transfigure-her face and form, . . he saw her garments 
Whiten to a sparkling radiance as of sunbeams on snow, 

. . the halo round her bright hair deepened into flame¬ 
like glory—her stature grew loftier, and became as it 
were endowed with supreme and splendid majesty, . , 
and the exquisite fairness of her countenance waxed 
warmly transparent, with the delicate hue of a white 
rose, through which the pink color faintly flushes soft 
suggestions of ruddier life. His gaze dwelt upon her in 
unspeakable wondering adoration, mingled with a sense 
of irrepressible sorrow and heaviness of heart, ... he 
felt she was about to leave him, . . and was it not a part¬ 
ing of soul from, soul ? 

Just then the Sun stepped royally forth from between^ 
the red and gold curtains of the east,—and in that blaze 
of earth’s life-radiance her figure became resplendently 
invested with vivid rays of roseate lustre that far sur¬ 
passed the amber shining of the Orb of day! Awed, da& 


408 ' ARDATH. 

zled, and utterly overcome, he yet strove to keep his 
straining eyes steadily upon her,—conscious that her smile 
still blessed him with its tenderness,... he made a wild 
effort to drag himself nearer to her, . . to touch once more 
the glittering edge of her robe ... to detain her one little, 
little moment longer! Ah! how wistfully, how fondly 
she looked upon him! . . Almost it seemed as if she 
might, after all, consent to stay! ... He stretched out 
his arms with a pathetic gesture of love, fear, and soul- 
passionate supplication. 

“ Edris! . . . Edris! ” . . he cried half despairingly. } 
“ Oh, by the strength of thine Angelhood have pity on 
the weakness of my Manhood! ” 

Surely she heard, or seemed to hear! . . and yet she 
gave no answer! . . No sign! . . . No promise!—no gest¬ 
ure of farewell! . . . only a look of divine, compassionat¬ 
ing, perfect love, . . a look so pure, so penetrating, so 
true, so rapturous, that flesh ancl blood could bear the 
glory of her transfigured Presence no longer,—and blind 
with the burning effulgence of her beauty, he shut his 
eyes and covered his face. He knew now, if he had never 
known it before, what was meant by “ an Angel standing 
in the sun ! ” * Moreover, he also knew that what Human¬ 
ity calls “ miracles ” are possible, and do happen,—and 
that instead of being violations of the Law of Nature as 
we understand it, they are but confirmations of that Law 
in its deeper depths ,—depths which, controlled by Spirit¬ 
ual Force alone, have not as yet been sounded by the 
most searching scientists. And what is Material Force 
but the visible manifestation of the Spiritual behind 
it? . . . He who accepts the Material and denies the 
Spiritual, is in the untenable position of one who admits 
an Effect and denies a Cause ! And if both Spiritual and 
Material be accepted, then how can we reasonably dare to 
set a limit to the manifestations of either the one or the \ 
other ? 

# * * a a 'j; / 

When he at last looked up, Edris had vanished! He f 
was alone, . . alone on the Field of Ardath, . . . the field 
that was “ barren ” in very truth, now she, his Angel, had 
been drawn away, as it seemed, into the sunlight, . . ab¬ 
sorbed like a paradise-pearl into those rays of life-giving 
gold that lit and warmed the reddening earth and heaven! 

Kevelatiop- chap- six., 17, 


ARDATII. 


409 


Slowly and dizzily he rose to his feet, and gazed about 
him in vague bewilderment. He had passed one night on 
the field! One night only! . . and he felt as though he 
had lived through years of experience! Now, the Vision 
was ended, . . Edris, the Reality , had fled, . . and the 
- World was before him, . . the World, with all the unsatis¬ 
fying things it grudgingly offers, . . the World in which 
, Al-Kyris had been a “ City Magnificent ” in the centuries 
gone,—and in which he, too, had played his part before, 
and had won fame, to be forgotten as soon as dead! 
Fame! . . how he had longed and thirsted for it! . . and 
what a foolish, undesirable distinction it seemed to him 
now! 

Steadying his thoughts by a few moments of calm reflec¬ 
tion, he remembered what he had in charge to do, . . to 
redeem his Past. To use and expend whatever force was 
in him for the good, the help, the consolement, and the 
love of others, . . . not to benefit himself! This was his 
task, . . and the very comprehension of it gave him a rush 
of vigor and virile energy that at once lifted the cloud of 
love-loneliness from his soul. 

“ My Edris! ” he whispered . . “ Thou shalt have no 
cause to weep for me in Heaven again ! . . with God’s help 
I will win back my lost heritage! ” 

As he spoke the words his eyes caught a glimpse of some¬ 
thing white on the turf where, but a moment since, his 
Angel-love had stood,—he stooped toward it,. . it was one 
half-opened bud of the wonderful “ Ardath-flowers ” that 
had covered the field in such singular profusion on the 
previous night when she first appeared. One only! . . 
might he not gather it ? 

He hesitated, . . then very gently and reverently broke 
it off, and tenderly bore it to his lips. What a beautiful 
blossom it was ! . . its fragrance was unlike that of any 
other flower,—its whiteness was more pure and soft than 
that of the rarest edelweiss on Alpine snows, and its 
partially disclosed golden centre had an almost luminous 
brightness. As he held it in his hand, all sorts of vague, 
delicious thoughts came sweeping across his brain, . . . 
thoughts that seemed to set themselves to music wild and 
strange and new, and suggestive of the sweetest, noblest 
influences! A thrill of expectation stirred in him, as of 
great and good things to be done,—grand changes to be 
wrought in the complex web of human destiny, brought 


410 


ARDAT3. ] 


about by the quickening and development of a pure, un¬ 
selfish, spiritual force, that might with saving benefit 
flow into the perplexed and weary intelligence of 
man; . . . and cheered, invigorated, and conscious of a 
circling, widening, ever-present Supreme Power that with 
all-surrounding love was ever on the side of work done ‘ 
for love’s sake, he gently shut the flower within his 
breast, resolving to carry it with him wheresoever he 
went as a token and proof of the “ signs and wonders ” 
of the Prophet’s Field. 

And now he prepared to quit the scene of his mystic 
Vision, in which he had followed with prescient pain 
the brief, bright career, the useless fame, the evil love- 
passion, and final fate of his Former Self,—and crossing 
the field with lingering tread, he looked back many times 
to the fallen block of stone where he had sat when he 
had first perceived God’s maiden Edris, stepping softly 
through the bloom. When should he again meet her ? 
Alas! . not till Death, the beautiful and beneficent Herald 
of true Liberty, summoned him to those lofty heights 
of Paradise where she had habitation. Not till then, 
unless, .... unless, .... and his heart beat with a 
sudden tumult as he recollected her last words, . “ unless 
the longing of thy love compels /” 

Could love compel her, he wondered, to come to him 
once more while yet he lived on. earth ? Perhaps! . . 
and yet if he indeed had such power of love, would it be 
generous or just to exert it? No! . . for to draw her 
down from Heaven to Earth seemed to him now a sort of 
sacrilege,—dearer to him was her joy than his own! But 
suppose the possibility of her being actually happy with 
him in mortal existence, . . . suppose that Love, when 
absolutely pure, unselfishly mutual, helpful, and steadfast, 
had it in its gift to make even the Sorrowful Star a 
Heaven in miniature, what then ? 

He would not trust himself to think of this! . . the 
mere shadowy suggestion of such supreme delight filled 
him with a strong passion of yearning, to which in his 
accepted creed of Self-abnegation he dared not yield! 
Firmly restraining, resisting, and renouncing his own 
desires, he mentally raised a holy shrine for her in his 
soul, .... a shrine of pure faith, warm with eternal 
aspirations and bright with truth, wherein he hallowed 
the memory of her beauty with a sense of devout, love- 


ABB AT IT. 


411 


like gladness. She was safe . . she was content, . . she 
blossomed flower-like in the highest gardens of God where 
all things fared well;—enough for him to worship her at a 
distance, . . to keep the clear reflection of her loveliness 
in his mind, .... and to live, so that he might deserve 
to follow and find her when his work on earth was done. 
Moreover, Heaven to him was no longer a vague, mythical 
realm, ill-defined by the prosy descriptions of church- 
preachers,—it was an actual World to which he was 
linked,—in which he had possessions, of which he was a 
native, and for the perpetuation and enlargement of whose 
splendor all worlds existed! 

Arrived at the boundary of the field, the spot marked 
by the broken half-buried pillar of red granite Heliobas 
had mentioned, he paused—thinking dreamily of the 
words of Esdras, who in answer to his Angel-visitant’s in¬ 
quiry: “ Why art thou disquietedt” had replied: “ Be¬ 
cause thou hast forsaken me, and yet I did according to thy 
words , and I went into the field, and lo ! I have seen and 
yet see, that I am not able to express” Whereupon the 
Angel had said, “ Stand up manfully and I will advise 
thee!” 

“Stand up manfully!” Yes! . . . this is what he, 
Theos Alwyn, meant to do. He would “ stand up man¬ 
fully ” against the howling iconoclasm and atheism of the 
Age,—he would be Poet henceforth in the true meaning 
of the word, namely Maker, . . he would make not break 
the grand ideal hopes and heaven-climbing ambitions of 
Humanity ! ... he would endeavor his utmost best to be < 
that “ Hierarch and Pontiff of the world ”—as a modern 
rugged Apostle of Truth has nobly said,—“ who Prome¬ 
theus-like can shape new Symbols and bring new fire 
from heaven to fix them into the deep, infinite faculties 
of Man.” 

With a brief silent prayer, he turned away at last, and 
walked slowly, in the lovely silence of the early Eastern 
morning, back to the place from whence he had last night 
wandered,—the Hermitage of Elzear, near the Ruins of 
Babylon. He soon came in sight of it, and also perceived 
Elzear himself, stooping over a small plot of ground in 
front of his dwelling, apparently gathering herbs. When 
he approached, the old man looked up and smiled, giving 
him a silent, expressively courteous morning greeting,— 

his manner it was evident that he thought his guest 


412 


ABDATR. 


had merely been out for an early stroll ere the heat of the 
day set in. And yet Ai-Kyris ! . . How real had seemed 
that dream-existence in that dream-city ! The figure of 
Elzear looked scarcely more substantial than the phantom- 
forms of Sah-lama, Zephoranim, Khosrfil, Zuriel, or 
Zabastes,—while Lysia’s exquisite face and seductive 
form, Niphrata’s pensive beauty, and all the local charac¬ 
teristics of the place, were stamped on the dreamer’s 
memory as faithfully as scenes flashed by the sun on the 
plates of photography ! True, the pictures were perhaps 
now slightly fading into the similitude of pale negatives, . . 
but still, would not everything that happened in the 
actual world merge into that same undecided dimness 
with the lapse of time? 

He thought so, . and smiled at the thought, . . . the 
transitory nature of earthly things was a subject for joy 
to him now,—not regret. With a kindly word or two to 
his venerable host, lie went through the open door of the 
Hermitage, and entered the little room he had left only a 
few hours previously. It appeared to him as familiar and 
unfamiliar as Al-Kyris itself! . . . till raising his eyes he 
saw the great Crucifix against the wall,—the sacred 
Symbol whose meaning he had forgotten and hopelessly 
longed for in his Dream,—and from which, before his 
visit to the field of Ardath, he had turned with a sense of 
bitter scorn and proud rejection. But now !. . Now he 
gazed upon it in unspeakable remorse,—in tenderest desir* 
to atone, . . . the sweet, grave, patient Eyes of the holy 
Figure seemed to meet his with a wondrous challenge of 
love, longing, and most fraternal, sympathetic comprehen¬ 
sion of his nature .... he paused, looking, .... and 
the pre-eminently false words of George Herbert suddenly 
occurred to him, “ Thy Saviour sentenced joy ! ” O blas¬ 
phemy ! . .Sentenced joy? Nay!—rather re-created it, 
and invested it with divine certainties, beyond all temporal 
change or evanishment! . . . Yielding to a swift impulse, 
he threw himself on his knees, and with clasped hands, 
leaned his brows against the feet of the sculptured Christ. 
There he rested in wordless peace,—his whole soul 
entranced in a divine passion of faith, hope, and love . . . 
there with the “Ardath flower” in his breast, he conse¬ 
crated his life to the Highest Good,—and there in absolute 
humility, and pure, child-like devotion, he crucified Self 
forever! 


ARhATS. 


413 


PART III.—POET AND ANGEL. 


u O Golden Hair 1 . . O Gladness of an Hour 
Made flesh and blood !” 

***** 

“ Who speaks of glory and the force of love 
And thou not near, my maiden-minded dove ! 

With all the coyness, all the beauty sheen 
Of thy rapt face ? A fearless virgin-queen, 

A queen f peace art thou,—and on thy head 
The golden light of all thy hair is shed 

Most nimbus-like, and most suggestive too 
Of youthful saints enshrined and garlanded. 

* * * * # 

Our thoughts are free,—and mine have found at last 
Their apt solution; and from out the Past 
There seems to shine as ’twere a beacon-fire: 

And all the land is lit with large desire 
Of lambent glory; all the quivering sea 
Is big with waves that wait the Morn’s decree 

As I, thy vassal, wait thy beckoning smile 
Athwart the splendors of my dreams of thee I ” 

—“ A Lover’s Litanies.”— Eric Mackay. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

FRESH LAURELS. 

It was a dismal March evening. London lay swathed 
in a melancholy fog,—a fog too dense to be more than 
temporarily disturbed even by the sudden gusts of the 
bitter east wind. Rain fell steadily, sometimes changing 
to sleet, that drove in sharp showers on the slippery 
roads and pavements, bewildering the tired horses, and 
stirring up much irritation in the minds of those ill- 
fated foot-passengers whom business, certainly not 
pleasure, forced to encounter the inconveniences of the 
weather Against on© house in particular—an old- 




414 


ARDATE. 


fashioned, irregular building situated in a somewhat out-of- 
the-way but picturesque part of Kensington—the cold, wet 
blast blew with specially keen ferocity, as though it were 
angered by the sounds within,—sounds that in truth 
rather resembled its own cross groaning. Curious short 
grunts and plaintive cries, interspersed with an occasional 
pathetic long-drawn whine, suggested dimly the idea 
that somebody was playing, or trying to play, on a re¬ 
fractory stringed instrument, the well-worn composition 
known as Raff’s “ Cavatina.” And, in fact, had the vexed 
wind been able to break through the wall and embody 
itself into a substantial being, it would have discovered 
the producer of the half-fierce, half-mournful noise, in the 
person of the Honorable Frank Villiers, who, with that 
amazingly serious ardor so often displayed by amateur 
lovers of music,* was persistently endeavoring to combat 
the difficulties of the violoncello. He adored his big in¬ 
strument,—the more unmanageable it became in his 
hands, the more he loved it. Its grumbling complaints 
at his unskilful touch delighted him,—when he could 
succeed in awakening a peevish dull sob from its troubled 
depths, he felt a positive thrill of almost professional 
triumph,—and he refused to be daunted in his efforts by 
the frequently barbaric clamor his awkward bowing 
wrung from the tortured strings. He tried every sort 
of music, easy and intricate—and his happiest hours were 
those when, with glass in eye and brow knitted in anx¬ 
ious scrutiny, he could peer his way through the labyrinth 
of a sonata or fantasia much too complex for any one 
but a trained artist, enjoying to the full the mental ex¬ 
citement of the discordant struggle, and comfortably 
conscious that as his residence was “ detached,” no ob¬ 
trusive neighbor could either warn him to desist, or set 
up an opposition nuisance next door by constant practice 
on the distressingly over-popular piano. One thing very 
much in his favor was, that he never manifested any 
desire to perform in public. No one had ever heard him 
play, . . he pursued his favorite amusement in solitude, 
and was amply satisfied, if when questioned on the sub¬ 
ject of music, he could find an opportunity to say with 
a conscious-modest air, “ My instrument is the ’cello.” 
That was quite enough self-assertion for him, . . and if 
any one ever urged him to display his talent, he would 


ARb^m. 


415 


elude the request with such charming grace and diffidence, 
that many people imagined he must really be a great 
musical genius who only lacked the necessary insolence 
and aplomb to make that genius known. 

The ’cello apart, Villiers was very generally recognized 
a« a discerning dilettante in most matters artistic. He 
was an excellent judge of literature, painting, and sculp¬ 
ture, . . his house, though small, was a perfect model of 
taste in design and adornment, . . he knew where to 
pick up choice bits of antique furniture, dainty porcelain, 
bronzes, and wood-carvings, while in the acquisition of 
rare books he was justly considered a notable connois¬ 
seur. His delicate and fastidious instincts were dis¬ 
played in the very arrangement of his numerous volumes, 
. . none were placed on such high shelves as to be out of 
hand reach, . . all were within close touch and ready to 
oommand, ranged in low, carved oak cases or on revolv¬ 
ing stands, . . . while a few particularly rare editions 
and first folios were shut in curious little side niches 
with locked glass-doors, somewhat resembling small 
shrines such as are used for the reception of sacred relics. 
The apartment he called his “ den ”—where he now sat 
practising the “ Cavatina ” for about the two-hundredth 
time—was perhaps the most fascinating nook in the whole 
house, inasmuch as it contained a little bit of everything, 
arranged with that perfect attention to detail which 
makes each object, small and great, appear not only orna¬ 
mental, but positively necessary. In one corner a quaint 
old jar overflowed with the brightness of fresh yellow 
daffodils; in another a long, tapering Venetian vase held 
feathery clusters of African grass and fern, . . here the 
medallion of a Greek philosopher or Roman Emperor 
gleamed whitely against the sombrely painted wall; 
there a Rembrandt portrait flashed out from the semi- 
obscure background of some rich, carefully disposed fold 
of drapery,—while a few admirable casts from the an¬ 
tique lit up the deeper shadows of the room, such as the 
immortally youthful head of the Apollo Belvedere, the 
wisely serene countenance of the Pallas Athene that 
Goethe loved, and the Cupid of Praxiteles. 

Judging from his outward appearance only, few would 
have given Villiers credit for being the man of penetra¬ 
tive and almost classic refinement he really was,—he 
looked far more athletic than aesthetic. Broad-shouldered 


416 


AEDATH. 


and deep*chested, with a round, blunt head firmly set on 
a full, strong throat, he had, on the whole, a somewhat 
obstinate and pugilistic air which totally belied his 
nature. His features, open and ruddy, were, without be¬ 
ing handsome, decidedly attractive—the mouth was rather 
large, yet good-tempered; the eyes bright, blue, and 
sparklingly suggestive of a native inborn love of humor. 
There was something fresh and piquant in the very ex- 
pression of na'ive bewilderment with which he now ad-, 
justed his eyeglass—a wholly unnecessary appendage— ! j 
and set himself strenuously to examine anew the chords ’ 
of that extraordinary piece of music which others thought 
so easy and which he found so puzzling, . . he could 
manage the simple melody fairly well, but the chords! 

“ They are the very devil! ” . . he murmured plain¬ 
tively, staring at the score, and hitching up his unruly 
instrument more securely against his knee, . . “ Perhaps 
the bow wants a little rosin.” 

This was one of his minor weaknesses,—he would never 
quite admit that false notes were his own fault. “ They 
couldn't be, you know! ” he mildly argued, addressing 
the obtrusive neck of the ’cello, which had a curious, 
stubborn way of poking itself into his chin, and causing 
him to wonder how it got there, . . surely the manner in 
which he held it had nothing to do with this awkward 
occurrence! “ I’m not such a fool as not to understand 

how to find the right notes, after all my practice! There’s 
something wrong with the strings,—or the bridge has 
gone awry,—or ”—and this was his last resource—“ the 
bow wants more rosin! ” 

Thus he hugged himelf in deliciously wilful ignorance 
of his own shortcomings, and shut his ears to the whis¬ 
pered reproaches of musical conscience. Had he been 
married his wife w'ould no doubt have lost no time in 
enlightening him,—she would have told him he was a • 
wretched player, that his scrapings on the ’cello were 
enough to drive one mad, and sundry other assurances • 
of the perfectly conjugal type of frankness,—but as it 
chanced he was a happy bachelor, a free and independent 
man with more than sufficient means to gratify his par¬ 
ticular tastes and whims. He was partner in a steadily 
prosperous banking concern, and had just enough to do 
to keep him pleasantly and profitably occupied. Asked 
why he did not marry, he replied with blunt and almost 


ABDATR. 


417 


brutal honesty, that he had never yet met a woman 
whose conversation he could stand for more than an 
hour. 

“ Silly or clever,” he said, “ they are all possessed of the 
same infinite tedium. Either they say nothing, or they 
say everything; they are always at the two extremes, 
and announce themselves as dunces or blue-stockings. 
One wants the just medium,—the dainty commingling of 
simplicity and wisdom that shall yet be pure womanly,— 
and this is precisely the jewel ‘ far above rubies ’ that one 
cannot find. I’ve given up the search long ago, and am 
entirely resigned to my lot. I like women very well—I 
may say very much—as friends, but to take one on chance 
as a comrade for life! . . . No, thank you! ” 

Such was his fixed opinion and consequent rejection 
of matrimony; and for the rest, he studied art and litera¬ 
ture and became an authority on both; so much so that 
on one occasion he kept a goodly number of people away 
from visiting the Royal Academy Exhibition, he having 
voted it a “disgrace to Art.” 

“ English artists occupy the last grade in the whole 
school of painting,” he had said indignantly, with that 
decisive manner of his which somehow or other carried 
conviction, . . “ The very Dutch surpass them; and in¬ 
stead of trying to raise their standard, each year sees 
them grovelling in lower depths. The Academy is be¬ 
coming a mere gallery of portraits, painted to please the 
caprices of vain men and women, at a thousand or two 
thousand guineas apiece; ugly portraits, too, woodeny 
portraits, utterly uninteresting portraits of prosaic no¬ 
bodies. Who cares to see 4 No. 154. Mrs. Flummery in 
her presentation-dress ’ . . except Mrs. Flummery’s own 
particular friends ? . . or 4 283. Miss Smox, eldest daughter 
of Professor A. T. Smox,’ or 4 546. Baines Bryce, Esq.’ ? 
. . . Who is Baines Bryce? . Nobody ever heard of him 
before. He may be a retired pork-butcher for all any 
one knows ! Portraits, even of celebrities, are a mistake. 
Take Algernon Charles Swinburne, for instance, the 
man who, when left to himself, writes some of the grand¬ 
est lines in the English language, he had his portrait in 
the Academy, and everybody ran away from it, it was 
such an unutterable hideous disappointment. It was a 
positive libel of course, . . Swinburne has fine eyes and 
a still finer brow, but instead of idealizing the poet ia him, 


ARDATB. 


118 

the silly artist painted him as if he had no more intel¬ 
lectual distinction than a bill-sticker! . . English art l * 
pooh! . . don’t speak to me about it I Go to Spain, Italy, 
Bavaria—see what they can do, and then say a Miserere 
for the sins of the R.A.’s! ” 

Thus he would talk, and his criticisms carried weight 
with a tolerably large circle of influential and wealthy 
persons, who when they called upon him, and saw the 
perfection of his house and the rarity of his art collections, 
came at once to the conclusion that it would be wise, as 
well as advantageous to themselves, to consult him before 
purchasing pictures, books, statues, or china, so that he 
occupied the powerful position of being able with a word 
to start an artist’s reputation or depreciate it, as he 
chose,—a distinction he had not desired, and which was 
often a source of trouble to him, because there were so 
few, so very few, whose work he felt he could con¬ 
scientiously approve and encourage. He was eminently 
good-natured and sympathetic; he would not give pain 
to others without being infinitely more pained himself; 
and yet, for all his amiability, there was a stubborn in¬ 
stinct in him which forbade him to promote, by word or 
look, the fatal nineteenth-century spread of mediocrity. 
Either a thing must be truly great and capable of being 
measured by the highest standards, or for him it had no 
value. This rule he carried out in all branches of art,— 
except his own ’cello-playing. That was not great,—that 
would never be great,—but it was his pet pastime; he 
chose it in preference to the billiards, betting, and bar- 
lounging that make up the amusements of the majority 
of the hopeful manhood of London, and, as has already 
been said, he never inflicted it upon others. 

He rubbed the rosin now thoughtfully up and down his 
bow, and glanced at the quaint old clock—an importation 
from Nilrnberg—that ticked solemnly in one corner near 
the deep bay-window, across which the heavy olive-green 
plush curtains were drawn, to shut out the penetrating 
chill of the wind. It wanted ten minutes to nine. He had 
given orders to his man-servant that he was on no account 
to be disturbed that evening, . . no matter what visitors 
called for him, none were to be admitted. He had made 
up his mind to have a long and energetic practice, and he 
felt a secret satisfaction as he heard the steady patter of the 
rain outside, . . the very weather favored his desire for 




ABDATE. 419 

solitude,—no one was likely to venture forth on such a 
night. 

Still gravely rubbing his brow, his eyes travelled from 
the clock in the corner to a photograph on the mantel¬ 
shelf—the photograph of a man’s face, dark, haughty, 
beautiful, yet repellent in its beauty, and with a certain 
hard sternness in its outline—the face of Theos Alwyn. 
From this portrait his glance wandered to the table, where, 
amid a picturesque litter of books and papers, lay a 
square, simply bound volume, with an ivory leaf-cutter 
thrust in it to mark the place where the reader left off, 
and its title plainly lettered in gold at the back —“ Nour- 

HALMA.” 

“ I wonder where he is! ” . . .he mused, his thoughts 
naturally reverting to the author of the book . . “He 
cannot know what all London knows, or surely he would 
be back here like a shot! It is six months ago now since 
I received his letter and that poem in manuscript from 
Tiflis in Armenia,—and not another line has he sent to 
tell me of his whereabouts! Curious fellow he is ! . . 
but, by Jove, what a genius! No wonder he has besieged 
Fame and taken it by storm! I don’t remember any 
similar instance, except that of Byron, in which such an 
unprecedented reputation was made so suddenly! And 
in Byron’s case it was more the domestic scandal about 
him than his actual merit that made him the rage, . . now 
the world knows literally nothing about Alwyn’s private 
life or character—there’s no woman in his history that I 
know of—no vice, ... he hasn’t outraged the law, upset 
morals, flouted at decency, or done anything that accord¬ 
ing to modern fashions ought to have made him famous— 
no! . . he has simply produced a perfect poem, stately, 
grand, pure, and pathetic,—and all of a sudden some 
secret spring in the human heart is touched, some long- 
closed valve opened, and lo and behold, all intellectual 
society is raving about him,—his name is in everybody’s 
mouth, his book in every one’s hands. I don’t altogether 
like his being made the subject of a ‘ craze ’;—experience 
shows me it’s a kind of thing that doesn’t last. In fact, it 
can't last . . the reaction invariably sets in. And the 
English public is, of all publics, the most insane in its 
periodical frenzies, and the most capricious. Now, it is 
all agog for a ‘ shilling sensational ’—then it discusses itself 
hoarse over a one-sided theological novel made up out of 


420 


AKDATH. 


theories long ago propounded and exhaustively set forth 
by Voltaire, and others of his school,—anon it revels in the 
gross descriptions of shameless vice depicted in an ‘ accu¬ 
rately translated ’ romance of the Paris slums,—now it 
writes thousands of letters to a black man, to sympathize 
with him because he has been called black !—could any¬ 
thing be more absurd! . it has even followed the departure 
of an elephant from the Zoo in weeping crowds! How¬ 
ever, I wish all the crazes to which it is subject were as 
harmless and wholesome as the one that has seized it for 
Alwyn’s book,—for if true poetry were brought to the 
front, instead of being, as it often is, sneered at and kept 
in the background, we should have a chance of regaining 
the lost Divine Art, that, wherever it has been worthily 
followed, has proved the glory of the greatest nations. 
And then we should not have to put up with such detest¬ 
able inanities as are produced every day by persons call¬ 
ing themselves poets, who are scarcely fit to write mottoes 
for dessert crackers, . . and we might escape for good 
and all from the infliction of 4 magazine-verse,’ which is 
emphatically a positive affront to the human intelligence. 
Ah me ! what wretched upholders we are of Shakespeare’s 
standard! . . Keats was our last splendor,—then there is 

an unfilled gap, bridged in part by Tennyson.and 

now comes Alwyn blazing abroad like a veritable meteor, 
—only I believe he will do more than merely flare across 
the heavens,—he promises to become a notable fixed 
star.” 

Here he smiled, somewhat pleased with his own skill 
in metaphor, and having rubbed his bow enough, he drew 
it lingeringly across the ’cello strings. A long, sweet, 
shuddering sound rewarded him, like the upward wave of 
a wind among high trees, and he heard it with much 
gratification. He would try the Cavatina again now, he 
decided, and bringing his music-stand closer, he settled 
himself in readiness to begin. Just then the Nttrn- 
berg clock commenced striking the hour, accompanying 
each stroke with a very soft and mellow little chime of 
bells that sent fairy-like echoes through the quiet room. 
A bright flame started up from the glowing fire in the 
grate, flinging ruddy flashes along the walls,—a rattling 
gust of rain dashed once at the windows,—the tuneful 
clock ceased, and all was still. Villiers waited a moment; 
then with heedful earnestness, started the first bar of 



ABBATH. 


421 


Kaff’s oft-murdered composition, when a knock at the 
door disturbed him and considerably ruffled his equa¬ 
nimity. 

“ Come in! ” he called testily. 

His man-servant appeared, a half-pleased, half-guilty 
look on his staid countenance. 

“ Please, sir, a gentleman called-” 

“ Well!—you said I was out ? ” 

“ No, sir! leastways I thought you might be at home 
to him, sir ! ” 

“ Confound you! ” exclaimed Villiers petulantly, throw¬ 
ing down his bow in disgust,—“ What business had you 
to think anything about it ? . . Didn’t I tell you I wasn’t 
at home to anybody ? ” 

“ Come, come, Villiers! ” . . said a mellow voice out¬ 
side, with a ripple of suppressed laughter in its tone, . . 
“ Don’t be inhospitable! I’m sure you are at home to 
me! ” 

And passing by the servant, who at once retired, the 
speaker entered the apartment, lifted his hat, and smiled. 
Villiers sprang from his chair in delighted astonishment. 

“ Alwyn /” he cried; and the two friends—whose 
friendship dated from boyhood—clasped each other’s hands 
heartily, and were for a moment both silent,—half- 
ashamed of those affectionate emotions to which impul¬ 
sive women may freely give vent, but to which men may 
not yield without being supposed to lose somewhat of the 
dignity of manhood. 

“ By Jove! ” said Villiers at last, drawing a deep breath. 
“ This is a surprise ! Only a few minutes ago I was con¬ 
sidering whether we should not have to note you down 
in the newspaper as one of the ‘ mysterious disappear¬ 
ances ’ grown common of late! Where do vou come from, 
old fellow?” 

“ From Paris just directly,” responded Alwyn, divest¬ 
ing himself of his overcoat, and stepping outside the door 
to hang it on an evidently familiar nail in the passage, 
and then re-entering,—“ But from Bagdad in the first 
instance. I visited that city, sacred to fairy-lore, and 
from thence journeyed to Damascus like one of our 
favorite merchants in the Arabian Nights, —then I went 
to Bevrout, and Alexandria, from which latter place I 
took ship homeward, stopping at delicious Venice while 
on my way.” 


422 


ATtBATH. 


“ Then you did the Holy Land, I suppose ? queried 
Villiers, regarding him with sudden and growing inquisi¬ 
tiveness. 

“ My dear fellow, certainly not! The Holy Land, in¬ 
vested by touts, and overrun by tourists, would neither 
appeal to my imagination nor my sentiments—and in its 
present state of vulgar abuse and unchristian sacrilege, 
it is better left unseen by those who wish to revere its 
associations, . . . don’t you think so ? ” 

He smiled as he put the question, and drawing up an 
old-fashioned oak chair to the fire, seated himself. 
Villiers meanwhile stared at him in unmitigated amaze¬ 
ment, . . what had come to the fellow, he wondered? 
How had he managed to invest himself with such an 
overpowering distinction of look and grace of bearing ? 
He had always been a handsome man,—yes, but there 
was certainly something more than handsome about him 
now. There was a singular magnetism in the flash of 
the fine soft eyes, a marvellous sweetness in the firm lines 
of the perfect mouth, a royal grandeur and freedom in 
the very poise of his well-knit figure and noble head, that 
certainly had not before been apparent in him. More¬ 
over, that was an odd remark for him to make about 
“ wishing to revere” the associations of the Holy Land,— 
very odd, considering his formerly skeptical theories! 

Rousing himself from his momentary bewilderment, 
Villiers remembered the duties of hospitality. 

“ Have you dined, Alwyn ? ” he asked, with his hand 
on the bell. 

“ Excellently! ” was the response, accompanied by a 
bright upward glance ; “ I went to that big hotel opposite 
the Park, had dinner, left the °urplus of my luggage in 
charge, selected one small portmanteau, took a hansom 
and came on here, resolved to pass one night at least 
under your roof ...” 

“ One night! ” interrupted Villiers ; “ You’re very 
much mistaken, if you think you are going to get off so 
easily! You’ll not escape from me for a month, I tell 
you! Consider yourself a prisoner! ” 

“ Good! Send for the luggage to-morrow! ” laughed 
Alwyn, flinging himself back in his chair in an attitude 
of lazy comfort, “ I give in !—I resign myself to my fate! 
But what of the ’cello?” 

And he pointed to the bulgy-looking casket of sweet 


ARDATH. 


423 


sleeping sounds—s.eeping generally so far as Villiers was 
concerned, but ready to wake at the first touch of the 
master-hand. Villiers glanced at it with a comical air of 
admiring vanquishment. 

“ Oh, never mind the ’cello! ” he said indifferently, 
“ that can bear being put by for a while. It’s a most 
curious instrument,—sometimes it seems to sound better 
when I have let it rest a little. Just like a human thing, 
you know—it gets occasionally tired of me, I suppose! 
But I say, why didn’t you come straight here, bag, bag¬ 
gage, and all ? . . What business had you to stop on the 
way at any hotel ? . . Do you call that friendship ? ” 

Alwyn laughed at his mock injured tone. 

“ I apologize, Villiers! . I really do! But I felt it would 
be scarcely civil of me to come down upon you for bed, 
board, and lodging, without giving you previous notice, 
and at the same time I wanted to take you by surprise, as 
I did. Besides I wasn’t sure whether I should find you 
in town—of course I knew I should be welcome if you 
were! ” 

“Rather ! ” assented Villiers shortly and with affected 
gruffness . . “ If you were sure of nothing else in this 
world, you might be sure of that! ” . . He paused squared 
his shoulders, and put up his eyeglass, through which he 
scanned his friend with such a persistently scrutinizing 
air, that Alwyn was somewhat amused. 

“ What are you staring at me for ? ” he demanded gayly, 
—“ Am I so bronzed ? ” 

“ Well—you are rather brown,” admitted Villiers slowly 
. “ But that doesn’t surprise me. The fact is, it’s very 
odd and I can’t altogether explain it, but somehow I find 
you changed, . . positively very much changed too! ” 

“ Changed? In appearance, do you mean? How?” 

“ ‘ Look here upon this picture and on this,’ ” quoted 
Villiers dramatically, taking down Alwyn’s portrait from 
,the mantleshelf, and mentally comparing it with the smil¬ 
ing original. “No two heads were ever more alike, and 
yet more distinctly w/zlike. Here ”—and he tapped the 
photograph—“ you have the appearance of a modern Ti- 
mon or Orestes . . but now, as you actually are , I see more 
resemblance in your face to that ”—and he pointed to the 
serene and splendid bust of the “ Apollo ”—“ than to this 
, ‘ counterfeit presentment,’ of your former self.” 

' Alwyn flushed,—not so much at the implied compli- 


"JIUDATH, 


424 

ment, as at the words « former self.” But quickly shaking 
off his embarrassment, he glanced round at the “ Apollo” 
and lifted his eyebrows incredulously. 

“ Then all I can say, my dear boy, is, that that eyeglass 
of yours represents objects to your own view in a classic 
light which is entirely deceptive, for I fail to trace the 
faintest similitude between my own features and that of 
the sunborn Lord of Laurels.” 

“ Oh, you may not trace it,” said Villiers calmly, “ but 
nevertheless others will. Some people say that no man 
knows what he really is like, and that even his own reflec¬ 
tion in the glass deceives him. Besides, it is not so much 
the actual contour for the features that impresses one, it 
is the look ,—you have the look of the Greek god, the look 
of conscious power and inward happiness.” 

He spoke seriously, thoughtfully,—surveying his friend 
with a vague feeling of admiration akin to reverence. 

Alwyn stooped, and stirred the fire into a brighter 
blaze. “ Well, so far, my looks do not belie me,” he said 
gently, after a pause . . “I am conscious of both power 
and joy! ” 

“ Why, naturally ! ” and Villiers laid one hand affec¬ 
tionately on his shoulder . . “Of course the face of the 
whole world has changed for you, now that you have won 
such tremendous fame ! ” 

“ Fame ! ”—Alwyn sprang upright so suddenly that 
Villiers was quite startled,—“ Fame! Who says I am 
famous ? ” And his eyes flashed forth an amazed, almost 
haughty resentment. 

His friend stared—then laughed outright. 

“ Who says it ? . Why, all London says it. Do you 
mean to tell me, Alwyn, that you’ve not seen the English 
papers and magazines, containing all the critical reviews 
and discussions on your poem of l JVourhtllma' > ?” 

Alwyn winced at the title,—what a host of strange 
memories it recalled! 

“ I have seen nothing,” he replied hurriedly, “ I have 
made it a point *to look at no papers, lest I should chance 
on my own name coupled, as it lias been before, with the 
languid abuse common to criticism in this country. Not 
that I should have cared ,—note ! . . ” and a slight smile 
played on his lips . . “In fact I have ceased to care. 
Moreover, as I know modern success in literature is 
chiefly commanded by the praise of a 4 clique,’ or the serv- 


A ED ATII. 


425 


ices of c log-rollers, 7 and as I am not included in any of the 
journalistic rings, I have neither hoped nor expected any 
particular favor or recognition from the public.” 

“ Then,” said Villiers excitedly, seizing him by the 
hand, “ let me be the first to congratulate you! It is 
often the way that when we no longer specially crave a 
thxng, that thing is suddenly thrust upon us whether we 
wi 11 or no,—and so it has happened in your case. Learn, 
therefore, my dear fellow, that your poem, which you sent 
to me from Tiflis, and which was published under my 
supervision about four months ago, has already run 
through six editions, and is now in its seventh. Seven 
editions of a poem,— a poem, mark you!—in four months, 
isn’t bad, . . moreover, the demand continues, and the 
long and the short of it is, that your name is actually at 
the present moment the most celebrated in all London,— 
in fact, you are very generally acknowledged the greatest 
poet of the day ! And,” continued Villiers, wringing his 
friend’s hand with uncommon fervor . . “ I say, God 
bless you, old boy! If ever a man deserved success, you 
do! ‘ JVourhdlma ’ is magnificent!—such a genius as yours 
will raise the literature of the age to a higher standard 
than it has known since the death of Adonais * You 
can’t imagine how sincerely I rejoice at your triumph! ” 

Alwyn was silent,—he returned his companion’s cor¬ 
dial hand-pressure almost unconsciously. He stood, lean¬ 
ing against the mantelpiece, and looking gravely down 
into the fire. His first emotion was one of repugnance,— 
of rejection, . . what did he need of this will-o’-the-wisp 
called Fame, dancing again across his path,—this transi¬ 
tory torch of world-approval! Fame in London! . . 
What was it, what could it be, compared to the brilliancy 
of the fame he had once enjoyed as Laureate of Al-Kyris! 
As this thought passed across his mind, he gave a quick 
interrogative glance at Villiers, who was observing him 
with much wondering intentness, and his handsome face 
lighted with sudden laughter. 

* Dear old boy! ” he said, with a very tender inflection 
in his mellow, mirthful voice—“ You are the best of good 
fellows, and I thank you heartily for your news, which, if 
it seems satisfactory to you, ought certainly to be satisfac¬ 
tory to me! But tell me frankly, if I am as famous as you 
say, how did I become so ? . . how was it worked up ? ” 

* Keats. 


LZDATB.] 


“ W orked up! ” Yilliers was completely taken back by 
the oddity of this question. 

“ Come ! ” continued Alwyn persuasively, his fine eyes 
sparkling with mischievous good-humor . . “You can’t 
make me believe that ‘ All England ’ took to me suddenly 
of its own accord,—it is not so romantic, so poetry-loving, 
so independent, or so generous as that! How was my 
‘celebrity ’ first started ? If my book,—which has all the 
disadvantage of being a poem instead of a novel,—has so 
suddenly leaped into high favor and renown, why, then, 4 
some leading critic or other must have thought that I 
myself was dead! ” 

The whimsical merriment of his face seemed to reflect 
itself on that of Yilliers. 

“ You’re too quick-witted, Alwyn, positively you are! ” 
he remonstrated with a frankly humorous smile . . “ But 
as it happens, you’re perfectly right! Not one critic, but 
three, —three of our most influential men, too—thought 
you were dead!—and that ‘ Nourhalma ’ was a posthu¬ 
mous work of perished genius / ” 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

ZABASTESISM AND PATJXISM. 

The delighted air of triumphant conviction with which 
Alwyn received this candid statement was irresistible, 
and Yilliers’s attempt at equanimity entirely gave way 
before it. He broke into a roar of laughter,—laughter in 
which his friend joined,—and for a minute or two the room 
rang with the echoes of their mutual mirth. 

“ It wasn’t my doing, ” said Yilliers at last, when he 
could control himself a little,—“ and even now I don’t in 
the least know how the misconception arose ! ‘ Nour- 

halma ’ was published, according to your instructions, as 
rapidly as it could be got through the press, and I had no 
preliminary ‘ puffs ’ or announcements of any kind circu¬ 
lated in the papers. I merely advertised it with a nota¬ 
ble simplicity, thus : ‘ JLourhalma. A Love-Legend of the 
Last. A Poem. By Theos Alwyn .’ That was all. 
Well, when it came out, copies of it were sent, accord¬ 
ing to custom, round to all the leading newspaper offices. 


AUDATU. 


427 


and for about three weeks after its publication I saw not 
a word concerning it anywhere. Meanwhile I went on 
advertising. One ‘day at the Constitutional Club, while 
glancing . over the Parthenon , I suddenly spied „in it a 
long review, occupying four columns, and headed ‘A 
Wonder-Poem’; and just out of curiosity, I began to 
read it. I remember—in fact I shall never forget,—its 
opening Sentence, . . it was so original! ” and he laughed 
again. “It commenced thus: ‘It has been truly said 
that those whom the gods love die young! ’ and then on 
it went, dragging in memories of Chatterton and Shelley 
and Keats, till I found myself yawning and wondering 
what the deuce the writer was driving at. Presently, 
about the end of the second column, I came to the asser¬ 
tion that ‘ the posthumous poem of “ Nourhalma ” must 
be admitted as one of the most glorious productions in 
the English language.’ This woke me up considerably, 
and I read on, groping my way through all sorts of wordy 
phrases and used-up arguments, till my mind gradually 
grasped the fact that the critic of the Parthenon had 
evidently never heard of Theos Alwyn before, and being 
astonished, and perhaps perplexed, by the original beauty 
and glowing style of ‘ Nourhalmal had jumped, without 
warrant, to the conclusion that its author must be dead. 
The wind-up of his lengthy dissertation was, as far as I 
can recollect, as follows : 

“‘It is a thousand pities this gifted poet is no more. 
Splendid as the work of his youthful genius is, there is 
no doubt but that, had he lived, he would have endowed 
the world anew with an inheritance of thought worthy of 
the grandest master-minds.’ Well, when I had fully 
realized the situation, I began to think to myself, Shall I 
enlighten this Sir Oracle of the Press, and tell him the 
• dead' author he so enthusiastically eulogizes, is alive 
and well, or was so, at any rate, the last time I heard 
from him ? I debated the question seriously, and, after 
much cogitation, decided to leave him, for the present, in 
ignorance. First of all, because critics like to consider 
themselves the wisest men in the world, and hate to be 
told anything,—secondly, because I igthgr enjoyed the 
fgn. The publisher of ‘ N'ourhhlmate^S Tery excellent 
fellow—sent me the critique, and wrote asking me whether 
it was true that the author of the poem was really dead, 
mH if txot, whether he should contradict the report, I 



428 


ARDATH. 


waited a bit before answering that letter, ana while I 
waited two more critiques appeared in two of the most 
assertively pompous and dictatorial journals of the day, 
echoing the eulogies of the Parthenon , declaring ‘this 
dead poet ’ worthy ‘ to rank with the highest of the Im¬ 
mortals,’ and a number of other similar grandiose declara¬ 
tions. One reviewer took an infinite deal of pains to 
prove ‘ that if the genius of Theos Alwyn had only been 
spared to England, he must have infallibly been elected 
Poet Laureate as soon as the post became vacant, and 
that too, without a single dissentient voice, save such as 
were raised in envy or malice. But, being dead’—con¬ 
tinued this estimable scribe—‘ all we can say is that he 
yet speaketh, and that “ JVourhdlma ” is a poem of which 
the literary world cannot be otherwise than justly proud. 
Let the tears that we shed for this gifted singer’s un¬ 
timely decease be mingled with gratitude for the price¬ 
less value of the work his creative genius has bequeathed, 
to us!’” 

Here Yilliers paused, his blue eyes sparkling with in¬ 
ward amusement, and looked at Alwyn, whose face, 
though perfectly serene, had now the faintest, softest 
shadow of a grave pathos hovering about it 

“By this time,” he continued . . “I thought we had 
had about enough sport, so I wrote off to the publisher 
to at once contradict the erroneous rumor. But now that 
publisher had his story to tell. lie called upon me, and 
with a blandly persuasive air, said, that as ‘ Nourhalma ’ 
was having an extraordinary sale, was it worth while to 
deny the statement of your death just yet? . . lie was 
very anxious, . . but I was firm, . and lest he should 
waver, I wrote several letters myself to the leading jour¬ 
nals, to establish the certainty, so far as I was aware, of 
your being in the land of the "living. And then what do 
you think happened ? ” 

Alwyn met his bright, satirical glance with a look that 
was half-questioning, half-wistful, but said nothing. 

“ It was the most laughable, and at the same time the 
most beautifully instructive, lesson ever taught by the 
whole annals of journalism! The Press turned round 
like a weathercock with the wind, and exhausted every 
epithet of abuse they could find in the dictionaries. 
' Pfowhalma' was a ‘poor, ill-conceived work,’—‘an out¬ 
rage to intelleotual perception,’-^ a good idea, spoilt in 


AJRDATB. 


429 


the treatment; an amazingly obscure attempt at sub¬ 
limity ’—et cetera , . . but there ! you can yourself peruse 
all the criticisms, both favorable and adverse, for I have 
acted the part of the fond granny to you in the careful 
cutting out and pasting of everything I could find written 
concerning you and your work in a book devoted to the 
purpose, . and I believe I’ve missed nothing. Mark you, 
however, the Parthenon never reversed its judgment, nor 
did the other two leading journals of literary opinion,—it 
wouldn’t do for such -bigwigs to confess they had blun¬ 
dered, you know! . . and the vituperation of the smaller 
fry w T as just the other weight in the balance which made- 
the thing equal. The sale of tJSTourhhlma 5 grew fast and 
furious; all expenses were cleared three times over, and 
at the present moment the publisher is getting conscien¬ 
tiously anxious (for some publishers are more conscien¬ 
tious than some authors will admit!) to hand you over a 
nice little check for an amount which is not to be despised 
in this workaday world, I assure you! ” 

“I did not write for money,”—interrupted Alwyn 
quietly . . “ Nor shall I ever do so.” 

“ Of course not,” assented Villiers promptly. “ No poet, 
and indeed no author whatsoever, who lays claim tc a 
fraction of conscience, writes for money only. Those with 
whom money is the first consideration debase their Art 
into a coarse huckstering trade, and are no better than 
contentious bakers and cheesemongers, who jostle each 
other in a vulgar struggle as to which shall sell perishable 
goods at the highest profit. None of the lasting works of 
the world were written so. Nevertheless, if the public 
voluntarily choose to lavish what they can of their best 
on the author who imparts to them inspired thoughts and 
noble teachings, then that author must not be churlish, or 
slow to accept the gratitude implied. I think the most 
appropriate maxim for a poet to address to his readers is, 
‘Freely ye have received, freely give.’ ” 

There was a moment’s silence. Alwyn resumed his 
seat in the chair near the fire, and Villiers, leaning one 
arm on the mantelpiece, still stood, looking down upon 
him. 

“ Such, my dear fellow,” he went on complacently . . “is 
the history of the success of ‘ JSFonrhd,lma.' > It certainly 
began with the belief that you were no longer able to 
benefit by the eulogy received,—but all the same that 


AM) Am. 


430 

oulogy has been uttered and cannot be tmuttered. It has 
led all the lovers of the highest literature to get the book 
lor themselves, and to prove your actual worth, independ¬ 
ently of press opinions,—and the result is an immense 
and steadily widening verdict in your favor. Speaking 
personally, I have never read anything that gave me quite 
so much artistic pleasure as this poem of yours except 
*Hyperion ,’—only ‘ Hyperion ’ is distinctly classical, while 
* Nourhdlma ’ takes us back into some hitherto unexplored 
world of antique paganism, which, though essentially 
pagan, is wonderfully full of pure and lofty sentiment. 
When did the idea first strike yom ? ” 

“ A long time ago! ” returned Alwyn with a slight, 
serious smile—“ I assure you it is by no means original 1 ” 

Villiers gave him a quick, surprised glance. 

“No? Well, it seems to me singularly original!” he 
said . . “ In fact, one of your critics says you are too 
original! Mind you, Alwyn, that is a very serious fault 
m this imitative age! ” 

Alwyn laughed a little. His thoughts were very busy. 
Again in imagination he beheld the burning “ Temple of 
Nagaya ” in his Dream of Al-Kyris,—again he saw himself 
carrying the corpse of his former Self through fire and 
flame,—and again he heard the last words of the dying 
Zab&stes—“I was the Poet’s adverse Critic, and who but 
I should write his Eulogy ? Save me, if only for the sake 
of Sah-lfima’s future honor!—thou knowest not how 
warmlv, how generously, how nobly, I can praise the 
dead!” 

True ! . . How easy to praise the poor, deaf, stirless clay 
when sense and spirit have fled from it forever! No fear 
to spoil a corpse by flattery,—the heavily sealed-up eyes 
can never more unclose to lighten with glad hope or fond 
ambition; the quiet heart cannot leap with gratitude or 
joy at that “ word spoken in due season ” which aids its 
noblest aspirations to become realized! The dead poet! 
—Press the cold clods of earth over him, and then rant 
above his grave,—tell him how great he was, what infinite 
possibilities were displayed in his work, what excellence, 
what merit, what subtlety of thought, what grace of style ! 
Rant and rave!—print reams of acclaiming verbosity, 
pronounce orations, raise up statues, mark the house he 
lived and starved in, with a laudatory medallion, and print 
his once-rejected stanzas in every sort of type and fashion, 


jiunjiTii. 


431 


from the cheap to the costly,—teach the multitude how 
worthy he was to be loved, and honored,—and never fear 
that he will move from his rigid and chill repose to he 
happy for once in his life, and to learn with amazement 
that the world he toiled so patiently for is actually learn¬ 
ing to be grateful for his existence! Once dead and buried 
he can he safely made glorious,—he cannot affront us 
either with his superior intelligence, or make us envy the 
splendors of his fame! 

Some such thoughts as these passed through Alwyn’s 
mind as he dreamily gazed into the red hollows of the fire, 
and reconsidered all that his friend had told him. He 
had no personal acquaintances on the press,—no literary 
club or clique to haul him up into the top-gallant mast of 
renown by persistent puffery; he was not related, even 
distantly, to any great personage, either statesman, pro¬ 
fessor, or divine—he had not the mysterious recommen¬ 
dation of being a “ university man ”; none of the many 
“ wheels ” within wheels which are nowadays so frequently 
set in motion to make up a momentary literary f urore , 
were his to command,—and yet—the Parthenon had 
praised him! . .Wonder of wonders! The Parthenon 
was a singularly obtuse journal, which glanced at the 
whole world of letters merely through the eyes of three or 
four men of distinctly narrow and egotistical opinions, and 
these three or four men kept it as much as possible to 
themselves, using its columns chiefly for the purpose of 
admiring one another. As a consequence of this restricted 
arrangement, very few outsiders could expect to be noticed 
for their work, unless they were in the “ set,” or at least 
had occasionally dined with one of the mystic Three or 
Four, . . and so it had chanced that Alwyn’s first venture 
into literature had been totally disregarded by the Par - 
thenon. In fact, that first venture, being a small and un¬ 
obtrusive book, had, most probably, been thrown into 
the waste-paper basket, or sold for a few pence to the 
second-hand dealer. And now,—now because he had 
been imagined dead ,—the Parthenon!s leading critic had 
singled him out and held him up for universal admiration ! 

Well, well! . . after all, N'ourhctlma was a posthu¬ 
mous work,— it had been written before , ages since, when 
he, as Sah-lfima, had perished ere he had had time to give 
it to the world ! He had merely remembered it . . drawn 
it forth again, as it were, from the dim, deep vistas of 


432 


ABB ATE. 


past deeds ,-^so mose who had reviewed it as the produc¬ 
tion of one dead in youth, were right in their judgment, 
though they did not know it! . . It was old,—nothing 
but repetition,—hut now he had something new and true 
and passionate to say, . something that, if God pleased, f 
it should be his to utter with the clearness and forcible¬ 
ness common to the Greek thunderers of yore, who spoke 
out what was in them, grandly, simply, and with the fear¬ 
less majesty of thought that recked nothing of opinions. 
Oh, he would rouse the hearts of men from paltry greed 
and covetousness, . from lust, and hatred, and all things 
evil,—no matter if he lost his own life in the effort, he 
would still do his utmost best to lift, if only in a small 
degree, the deepening weight of self-wrought agony from 
self-blinded mankind! Yes ! . he must work to fulfil 
the commands and deserve the blessings of Edris ! 

Edris ! . ah, the. memory of her pure angel-loveliness 
rushed upon him like a flood of invigorating warmth and 
light, and when he looked up from his brief reverie, his 
countenance, beautiful, and kindling with inward ardor, 
affected Villiers strangely,—almost as a very grand and 
perfect strain of music might affect and unsteady one’s 
nerves. The attraction he had always felt for his poet- 
friend deepened to quite a fervent intensity of admiration, 
but he was not the man to betray his feelings outwardly, 
and to shake off his emotion he rushed into speech again. 

“ By the by, Alwyn, your old acquaintance, Professor 
Moxall, is very much ‘down’ on your book. You know 
he doesn’t write reviews, except on matters connected 
with evolutionary phenomena, but I met him the other 
day, and he was quite upset about you. ‘ Too tran¬ 
scendental ’! he said, dismally shaking his bald pate to 
and fro—‘ The whole poem is a vaporous tissue of absurd 
impossibilities! Ah dear, dear me! what a terrible fall¬ 
ing-off in a young man of such hopeful ability ! I thought 
he had done with poetry forever!—I took the greatest 
pains to prove to him what a ridiculous pastime it was, 
and how unworthy to be considered for a moment seri¬ 
ously as an art, —and he seemed to understand my reason¬ 
ing thoroughly. Indeed he promised to be one of our 
most powerful adherents, . he had an excellent grasp of 
the material sciences, and a fine contempt for religion. 
Why, with such a quick, analytical brain as his, he might 
have carried on Darwin’s researches to an extremer point 



ABDATH. 


433 


of the origination of species than has yet been reached ! 
All a ruin, sir ! a positive ruin,—a man who will in cold 
blood write such lines as these . . 

* “ Grander is Death than Life, and sweeter far 

The splendors of the Infinite Future, than our eyes, 

Weary with tearful watching, yet can see ”— 

condemns himself as a positive lunatic ! And young 
Alwyn too!—he who had so completely recognized the 
foolishness and futility of expecting any other life than 
this one ! Good heavens l ... u Nourhdlma ,” as I under¬ 
stand it, is a sort of pagan poem—but with such incred¬ 
ible ideas and sentiments as are expressed in it, the author 
might as well go and be a Christian at once! 5 And with 
that he hobbled off, for it was Sunday afternoon, and he 
was on his way to St. George’s Hall to delight the as¬ 
sembled skeptics, by telling them in an elaborate lecture 
what absurd aniinalculse they all were ! ” 

Alwyn smiled. There was a soft light in his eyes, an 
expression of serene contentment on his face. 

“ Poor old Moxall! ” he said gently—“ I am sorry for 
him ! He makes life very desolate, both for himself and 
others who accept his theories. I’m afraid his disappoint¬ 
ment in me will have to continue, . . for as it happens I 
am a Christian,—that is, so far as I can, in *my un¬ 
worthiness, be a follower of a faith so grand, and pure, 
and true ! ” 

Villiers started, . . his mouth opened in sheer astonish¬ 
ment, . . he could scarcely believe his own ears, and he 
uttered some sound between a gasp and an exclamation 
of incredulity. Alwyn met his widely wondering gaze 
with a most sweet and unembarrassed calm. 

“ How amazed you look ! ” he observed, half playfully, 
—“ Religion must be at a very low ebb, if in a so-called 
Christian country you are surprised to hear a man openly 
acknowledge himself a disciple of the Christian creed ! ” 
There was a brief pause, during which the chiming 
clock rang out the hour musically on the stillness. Then 
Villiers, still in a state of most profound bewilderment, 
sat down deliberately in a chair oppositeAlwyn’s, and 
placed one hand familiarly on his knee. 

“ Look here, old fellow,” he said impressively, “ do you 
really mean it! . . Are you c going over ’ to some Church 
or other ? ” 

28 


434 


All BATH. 


Alwyn laughed—his friend’s anxiety was so genuine. 

“Not I!”—he responded promptly . . “Don’t be 
alarmed, Villiers,—I am not a ‘ convert ’ to any particular 
set form of faith,—what I care for is the faith itself. 
One can follow and serve Christ without any church dog¬ 
ma. He has Himself told us plainly, in words simple 
enough for a child to understand, what He would have us 
to do, . . and though I, like many others, must regret the 
absence of a true Universal Church where the servants of 
Christ may meet altogether without a shadow of differ¬ 
ence in opinion, and worship Him as He should be wor¬ 
shipped, still that is no reason why I should refrain from 
endeavoring to fulfil, as far as in me lies, my personal 
duty toward Him. The fact is, Christianity has never 
yet been rightly taught, grasped or comprehended,— 
moreover, as long as men seek through it their own 
worldly advantage, it never will be,—so that the majority 
of the people are really as yet ignorant of its true spiritual 
meaning, thanks to the quarrels and differences of .sects 
and preachers. But, notwithstanding the unhappy posi¬ 
tion of religion at the present day, I repeat, I am a Chris¬ 
tian, if love for Christ, and implicit belief in Him, can 
make me so.” 

He spoke simply, and without the slightest affectation, 
of reserv.e. Villiers was still puzzled. 

“ I thought, Alwyn,” he ventured to say presently with 
some little diffidence,—“ that you entirely rejected the 
idea of Christ’s Divinity, as a mere superstition ? ” 

“ In dense ignorance of the extent of God’s possibilities, 
I certainly did so,” returned Alwyn quietly,—“ But I have 
had good reason to see that my own inability to compre¬ 
hend supernatural causes was entirely to blame for that 
rejection. Are we able to explain all the numerous and 
complex variations and manifestations of Matter? No. 

. Then why do we dare to doubt the certainly conceivable 
variations and manifestations of Spirit? . . The doctrine 
of a purely human Christ is untenable,—a Creed founded 
on that idea alone would make no way with the immortal 
aspirations of the soul, . . what link could there be be¬ 
tween a mere man like ourselves and heaven ? None what¬ 
ever,—it needs the Divine in Christ to overleap the dark¬ 
ness of the grave, . to serve us as the Symbol of certain 
Resurrection, to teach us that this life is not the All, but 
only one loop in the chain of existence, . only one of thQ 


'A&DAf& 


4^5 


* many mansions ’ in the Father’s House. Human teachers 
of high morals there have always been in the world,— 
Confucius, Buddha, Zoroaster, Socrates, Plato, . . there 
is no end to them, and their teachings have been valuable 
so far as they went, but even Plato’s majestic arguments 
in favor of the Immortality of the Soul fall short of any¬ 
thing sure and graspable. There were so many prefigure - 
merits of what was to come, . just as the sign of the Cross 
was used in the Temple of Serapis, and was held in sin¬ 
gular mystic veneration by various tribes of Egyptians, 
Arabians, and Indians, ages before Christ came. And 
now that these prefigurements have resolved themselves 
into an actual Divine Symbol, the doubting world still 
hesitates, and by this hesitation paralyzes both its Will 
and Instinct—so that it fails to cut out the core of Chris¬ 
tianity’s true solution, or to learn what Christ really meant 
when He said ‘I am the Way, the Truth, and the Life,— 
no man cometh to the Father but by Me.’ Have you ever 
considered the particular weight of that word 4 man ’ in 
that text ? It is rightly specified that ‘ no man cometh ’ 
—for there are hosts of other beings, in other universes, 
who are not of our puny race, and who do not need to be 
taught either the way, truth, or life, as they know all three, 
and have never lost their knowledge from the beginning.” 

His voice quivered a little, and he paused,—Yilliers 
watched him with a strange sense of ever-deepening fas¬ 
cination and wonder. 

“ I have lately studied the whole thing carefully,” . . he 
resumed presently, . . “ and I see no reason why we, who 
call ourselves a progressive generation, should revert back 
to the old theory of Cerinthus, who, as early as sixty-seven 
years after Christ, denied His Divinity. There is nothing 
new in the hypothesis—it is no more original than the 
doctrine of evolution, which was skilfully enough handled 
by Democritus, and probably by many another before him. 
Voltaire certainly threshed out the subject exhaustively, . 
and I think Carlyle’s address to him on the uselessness 
of his work is one of the finest of its kind. Do you re¬ 
member it ? ” 

Villiers shook his head in the negative, whereupon Al- 
wyn rose, and glancing along an evidently well-remem¬ 
bered book-shelf, took from thence “ Sartor Eesartus ”— 
and turned over the pages quickly. 

“Here it is,”—and he read out the following passage . . 


436 


ABDATH. 


644 Cease, my much-respected Herr yon Voltaire, . shut 
thy sweet voice ; for the task appointed thee seems fin- 
ished. Sufficiently hast thou demonstrated this proposi¬ 
tion, considerable or otherwise: That the Mythus of the 
Christian Religion looks not in the eighteenth century as 
it did in the eighth. Alas, were thy six-and-thirty quar¬ 
tos, and the six-and-thirty thousand other quartos and 
folios and flying sheets or reams, printed before and since 
on the same subject, all needed to convince us of so little! 
But what next ? Wilt thou help us to ejnbody the Divine 
Spirit of that Religion in a new Mythus, in a new vehicle 
and vesture, that our Souls, otherwise too like perishing, 
may live? What! thou hast no faculty in that kind? 
Only a torch for burning and no hammer for building ? 
Take our thanks then—and thyself away !' ” 

Villiers smiled, and straightened himself in military 
fashion, as was his habit when particularly gratified. 

“ Excellent old Teufelsdrockh! ” he murmured sotto- 
voce —“ He had a rugged method of explaining himself, 
but it was decisive enough, in all conscience! ” 

“ Decisive, and to the point,” . . assented Alwyn, put¬ 
ting the book back in its place, and then confronting his 
friend.— 44 And he states precisely what is wanted by the 
world to-day,— wanted pressingly, eagerly , . . . namely 
that the 4 Divine Spirit ’ of the Christian Religion should 
be set forth in a 4 new vehicle and vesture ’ to keep pace 
with the advancing inquiry and scientific research of man . 
And truly for this, it need only be expounded according 
to its old, pure, primal, spiritual intention, and then, the 
more science progresses the more true will it be proved. 
Christ distinctly claimed His Divinity, and everywhere 
gave manifestations of it. Of course it can be said that 
these manifestations rest on testimony,— and that the 
4 testimony ’ was drawn up afterward and is a spurious 
invention—but we have no more proof that it is spurious 
than we have of * Homer’s Iliad being a compilation of 
several writers and not the work of a Homer at all. 
iSTotliing—not even the events of the past week—can be 
safely rested on absolute, undiffering testimony, inasmuch 
as no two narrators tell the same story alike. But all the 
same we have the Iliad ,—it cannot be taken from us by 
any. amount of argument, . . and we have the fruits of 
Christ’s gospel, half obscured as it is, visible among us. 

[ * See Chapter xm. “ In Al-Kyris ithe allusion to “ Oruzel.” j 


A EDA TIL 


437 


Everywhere civilization of a high and aspiring order has 
followed Christianity even at the cost of blood and tears, 
. . slavery has been abolished, and women lifted from un¬ 
speakable degradation to honor and reverence,—and had 
men been more reasonable and self-controlled, the purify¬ 
ing work would have been done peacefully and without 
persecution. It was St. Paul’s preaching that upset all 
the beautiful, pristine simplicity of the faith,—it is very 
evident he had no 4 calling or election ’ such as he pre¬ 
tended, . . I wonder Jeremy Bentham’s conclusive book 
on the subject is not more universally known. Paul’s 
sermonizing gave rise to a thousand different shades of 
opinion and argument,—and for a mere liair’s-breadth of 
needless discussion, nation has fought against nation, and 
man against man, till the very name of religion has heen 
made a ghastly mockery. That, however, is not the fault 
of Christianity,but the fault of those who profess to follow 
it, like Paul, while merely following a scheme of their own 
personal advantage or convenience, . . and the result of 
it all is that at this very moment, there is not a church in 
Christendom where Christ’s actual commands are really 
and to the letter fulfilled.” 

“Strong!” ejaculated Yilliers with a slight smile . . 
“ Mustn’t say that before a clergyman! ” 

44 Why not?” demanded Alwyn . . 44 Why should not 
clerics be told, once and for all, how ill they perform their 
sacred mission? Look at the wilderness of spreading 
Atheism to-day! . . and look at the multitudes of men 
and women who are hungering and thirsting for a greater 
comprehension of spiritual things than they have hitherto 
had!—and yet the preachers trudge drowsily on in the 
old ruts they have made for themselves, and give neither 
sympathy nor heed to the increasing pain, feverish bewil¬ 
derment, and positive want of those they profess to guide. 
Concerning science, too, what is the good of telling a toil¬ 
ing, more or less suffering race, that there are eighteen 
millions of suns in the Milky Way, and that viewed by the 
immensity of the Universe, man is nothing but a small, 
mean, and perishable insect ? Humanity hears the state¬ 
ment with dull, perplexed brain, and its weight of sorrow 
is doubled,—it demands at once, why, if an insect, its in¬ 
sect life should Be at all, if nothing is to come of it but 
weariness and woe? The marvels of scientific discovery 
offer no solace to the huge Majority of the Afflicted, un- 


ABDATH. 


488 

less we point the lesson that the Soul of Man is destined 
to live through more than these wonders; and that the 
millions of planetary systems in the Milky Way are but/ 
the Alpha Beta of the sublime Hereafter which is oui 
natural heritage, if we will but set ourselves earnestly to 
win it. Moreover, we should not foolishly imagine that 
we are to lead good lives merely for the sake of some sug¬ 
gested reward or wages,—no,—but simply because in 
practising progressive good we are equalizing ourselves 
and placing ourselves in active working harmony with the 
whole progressive good of the Creator’s plan. We have 
no more right to do a deliberately evil thing, than a musi¬ 
cian has a right to spoil a melody by a false note on his 
instrument. Why should we willfully jar God’s music, 
of which we are a part? I tell you that religion, as 
taught to-day, is rather one of custom and fear than love 
and confidence,—men cower and propitiate, when they 
should be full of thankfulness and praise,—and as for any 
reserve on these matters, I have none,—in fact, I fail to 
see why truth, . . spiritual truth, . should not be openly 
proclaimed now, even as it is sure to be proclaimed here¬ 
after.” 

His manner had warmed with his words, and he lifted 
his head with an involuntary gesture of eloquent resolve, 
Ms eyes flashing splendid scorn for all things hypocritical 
and mean. Villiers looked at him, feeling curiously moved 
and impressed by his fervent earnestness. 

“Well, I was right in one thing, at any rate, Alwyn” 
—he said softly . . “ you are changed,—there’s not a 
doubt about it! But it seems to me the change is dis¬ 
tinctly for the better. It does my heart good to hear you 
speak with such distinct and manly emphasis on a subject, 
which, though it is one of the burning questions of the day, 
is too often treated irreverently, or altogether dismissed 
with a few sentences of languid banter or cheap sarcasm. 

As regards myself personally, I must say that a man 
without faith in anything but himself, has always seemed 
to me exactly in keeping with the description given of an 
atheist by Lady Ashburton to Carlyle,—namely ‘ a person 
who robs himself, not only of clothes, but of flesh as well, 
and walks about the world in his bones.’ And, oddly 
enough in spite of all the controversies going on about 
Christianity* I have always really worshipped Christ in my 
heart of hearts. . . and yet . . I can't |o to church ! J 


ARDATH. 


439 

seem to lose the idea of Him altogether there : . .. but ”.. 
and his frank face took upon itself a dreamy light of deep 
feeling— 44 there are times when, walking alone in the fields, 
or through a very quiet grove of trees, or on the sea-shore, 

I begin to think of His majestic life and death, and the 
immense, unfailing sympathy He showed for every sort of 
human suffering, and then I can really believe in him as 
Divine friend, comrade, Teacher, and King, and I am 
scarcely able to decide which is the deepest emotion in 
my mind toward Him—love, or reverence.” 

He paused,—Alwyn’s eyes rested upon him with a quick, I 
comprehensive friendliness,—in one exchange of looks the 
two men became mutually aware of the strong undercur¬ 
rents of thought that lay beneath each other’s individual 
surface history, and that perhaps had never been so clearly 
recognized before,—and a kind of swift, speechless, satis¬ 
factory agreement between their two separate natures 
seemed suddenly drawn up, ratified, and sealed in a glance. 

“ I have often thought,” continued Villiers more 
lightly, and smiling as he spoke—“ that we are all angels 
or devils,—angels in our best moments, devils in our worst. 
If we could only keep the best moments always upper¬ 
most ! 4 Ah, poor deluded human nature! ’ as old Moxall 
says,—while in the same breath he contradicts himselt 
by asserting that human Reason is the only infallible 
means of ascertaining anything! How it can be 4 deluded ’ 
and 4 infallible ’ at the same time, I can’t quite under¬ 
stand ! But, Alwyn, you haven’t told me how you like 
the 4 get-up ’ of your book ? ” 

And he handed the volume in question to its author, 
who turned it over with the most curious air of careless 
recognition—in his fancy he again saw Zab&stes writing 
each line of it down to Sah-lfima’s dictation ! . 

44 It’s very well printed ”—he said at last,— 44 and very y 
tastefully bound. You have superintended the work con\ 
amove , Villiers, . . and I am as obliged to you as friend¬ 
ship will let me be. You know what that means ? ” 

44 It means no obligation at all ”—declared Villiers 
gayly . . 44 because friends who are the least worthy the 
name take delight in furthering each other’s interests 
and have no need to be thanked for doing what is particu¬ 
larly agreeable to them. You really like the appearance 
of it, then ? But you’ve got the sixth edition. This is 
the first.” __ 


440 


ABDATH. 


And he took up from a side-table a quaint small quarto, 
bound in a very superb imitation of old embossed leather, 
which Alwyn, beholding, was at once struck by the 
resemblance it bore to the elaborate designs that had 
adorned the covers of the papyrus volumes possessed by 
his Shadow-Self, Sahlftma! 

“ This is very sumptuous ! ” he said with a dreamy 
smi’le— “ It looks quite antique ! ” 

“Doesn’t it! ” exclaimed Villiers, delighted—“ I had it 
copied from a first edition of Petrarca which happens to 
be in my collection. This specimen of 1 JSTourhalma ’ has 
become valuable and unique. It was published at ten- 
and-six, and can’t be got anywhere under five or six guin¬ 
eas, if for that. Of course a copy of each edition has 
been set aside for you .” 

Alwyn laid down the book with a gentle indifference. 

“ My dear fellow, I’ve had enough of * JVourhalma , ’ ” 

. . he said . . “ I’ll keep a copy of the first edition, if only 
as a souvenir of your good-will and energy in bringing it 
out so admirably—but for the rest! . . the book belongs 
to me no more, but to the public,—and so let the public 
do with it what they will! ” 

Villiers raised his eyebrows perplexedly. 

“ I believe, after all, Alwyn, you don’t really care for 
your fame! ” * 

“Not in the least! ” replied Alwyn, laughing. “ Why 
should I?” 

“ You longed for it once as the utmost good! ” 

“ True!—hut there are other utmost goods, my friend, 
that I desire more keenly.” 

“ But are they attainable ? ”—queried Villiers. “ Men, 
and specially poets, often hanker after what is not possi¬ 
ble to secure.” 

Xi Granted! ” responded Alwyn cheerfully—“ But I do 
not crave for the impossible. I only seek to recover 
what I have lost.” 

“ And that is ? ” 

“ What most men have lost, or are insanely doing their 
best to lose ”—said Alwyn meditatively . . “ A grasp of 
things eternal, through the veil of things temporal.” 

There was a short silence, during which Villiers eyed 
his friend wistfully. 

“ What was that ‘ adventure ’ you spoke about in your 
letter from the Monastery on the Pass of Dariel ? ” he 


ABBATU. 


441 

asked after a while—“ You said you were on the search 
for a new sensation—did you experience it ? ” 

Alwyn smiled. “ I certainly did ! ” 

“ Did it arise from a contemplation of the site of the 
Ruins of Babylon ? ” 

“ Not exactly. Babylon,—or rather the earth-mounds 
which are now called Babylon,—had very little to do 
with it.” 

“ Don’t you want to tell me about it ? ” demanded Vil- 
liers abruptly. 

“Not just yet”—answered Alwyn, with good-humored 
frankness,—“ Not to-night, at any rate ! But I will tell 
you, never fear! For the present we’ve talked enough, . 
don’t you think bed suggests itself as a fitting conclusion 
to our converse ? ” 

Yilliers laughed and acquiesced, and after pressing his 
friend to partake of something in the way of supper, 
which refreshment was declined, he preceded him to a 
small, pleasantly cosy room,—his “ guest-chamber ” as he 
called it, but which was really almost exclusively set 
apart for Alwyn’s use alone, and was always in readiness 
for him whenever, he chose to occupy it. Turning on the 
pretty electric lamp that lit the whole apartment with a 
soft and shaded lustre, Villiers shook hands heartily with 
his old school-fellow and favorite comrade, and bidding 
him a brief but cordial good-night left him to repose. 

As soon as he was alone Alwyn took out from his breast 
pocket a small velvet letter-case, from which he gently 
drew forth a slightly pressed but unfaded white flower. 
Setting this in a glass of water he placed it near his bed, 
and watched it for a moment. Delicately and gradually 
its pressed petals expanded, . . its golden corolla bright¬ 
ened in hue, . . a subtle, sweet odor permeated the air, . . 
and soon the angelic “ immortelle ” of the Field of Ardath 
shone wondrously as a white star in the quiet room. And 
when the lamp was extinguished and the poet slept, that 
strange, fair blossom seemed to watch him like a soft, 
luminous eye in the darkness,—a symbol of things divine 
and lasting,—a token of far and brilliant world* where 
even flowers cannot fade! 


442 


AliDATH. 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

REALISM. 

At the end of about a week or so, it became very gen¬ 
erally known among the mystic “ Upper Ten ” of artistic 
and literary circles, that Theos Alwyn, the famous author 
of “JVourhalma” was, to put it fashionably, “ in town.” 
According to the classic phrasing of a leading society 
journal, “ Mr. Theos Alwyn, the poet, whom some of our 
contemporaries erroneously reported as dead, has arrived 
in London from his tour in the East. He is for the 
present a guest of the Honorable Francis Villiers.” The 
consequence of this and other similar announcements 
was, that the postman seemed never'to be away from 
Villiers’s door; and every time he came he was laden 
with letters and cards of invitation, addressed, for the 
most part, to Villiers himself, who, with something of 
dismay, saw his study table getting gradually covered 
with accumulating piles of society litter, such as is com¬ 
prised in the various formal notifications of dinners, 
dances, balls, soirees, “ at homes,” and all the divers sorts 
of entertainment with which the English “s'amusent 
moult tristement .” Some of these invitations, less cere¬ 
monious, were in form of pretty little notes from great 
ladies, who entreated their “ dear Mr. Villiers ” to give 
them the “ extreme honor and pleasure” of his company 
at certain select and extra brilliant receptions where 
Royalty itself would be represented, adding, as an earnest 
postscript—“ and do bring the Lion, you know, your very 
interesting friend, Mr. Alwyn, with you! ”—A good many 
such billets-doux were addressed to Alwyn personally, and 
as he opened and read them he was somewhat amused to 
see how many who had formerly been mere bowing ac¬ 
quaintances were now suddenly, almost magically, trans¬ 
formed into apparently eager, admiring, and devoted 
friends. 

“ One would think these people really liked me for my¬ 
self,”—he said one morning, tossing aside a particularly 
gushing, pressing note from a lady who was celebrated 
for the motley crowds she managed to squeeze into her 


ATiDAfS. 


443 


rooms, regardless of any one’s comfort or convenience,— 
“ And yet, as the matter stands, they actually know 
nothing of me. I might be a villain of the deepest dye, a 
kickable cad, or a coarse ruffian, but so long as I have 
written a 4 successful ’ book and am a 4 somebody ’—a 
literary 4 notable’—what matter my tastes, my morals,or 
my disposition! If this sort of thing is Fame, all I can 
say is, that it savors of very detestable vulgarity! ” 

44 Of course it does ! ”—assented Villiers— 44 But what 
else do you expect from modern society? . . What can 
you expect from a community which is chiefly ruled by 
moneyed parvenus , but vulgarity? If you go to this 
woman’s place, for instance”—and he glanced at the 
note Alwyn had thrown on the table,— 44 you will share 
the honors of the evening with the famous man-milliner 
of Bond Street, an 4 artist 5 in gowns, the female up¬ 
holsterer and house decorator, likewise an 4 artist,’—the 
ladies who ‘compose’ bonnets in Begent Street, also 
‘ artists,—’ and chiefest among the motley crowd, perhaps, 
the so-called new ‘Apostle’ of aestheticism, a ponderous 
gentleman who says nothing and does nothing, and who, 
by reason of his stupendous inertia and taciturnity, is 
considered the greatest 4 gun ’ of all! . it’s no use your 
going among such people,—in fact, no one who has any 
reverence left in him for the truth of Art can mis with 
those whose profession of it is a mere trade and hypo¬ 
critical sham. Such dunderheads would see no artistic 
difference between Phidias and the man of to-day who 
hews out and sets up a common marble mantel-piece I 
I’m not a fellow to moan over the 4 good old times,’—no, 
not a bit of it, for those good old times had much in them 
that was decidedly bad,—but I wish progress would not 
rob us altogether of refinement.” 

44 But society professes to be growing more and more 
cultured every day,”—observed Alwyn. 

44 0h, it professes ! . yes, that’s just the mischief of it. 
Its professions are not worth a groat. It professes to be 
one thing while anybody with eyes can see that it actually 
is another! The old style of aristocrat and gentleman is 
dying out,—the new style is the horsey lord, the betting 
X>uke, the coal-dealing Earl, the stock-broking Viscount! 
Trade is a very excellent thing,—a very necessary and 
Important thing,—but its influence is distinctly not re¬ 
fining. I have the greatest respect for my cheesemonger, 


444 


ART) ATS. 


for instance (and he has an equal respect for me, since 
he has found that I know the difference between real 
butter and butterine), but all the same I don’t want to 
see him in Parliament. I am arrogant enough to be¬ 
lieve that I, even I, having studied somewhat, know more 
about the country’s interest than he does. I view it by 
the light of ancient and modern historical evidence,—he 
views it according to the demand it makes on his cheese. 
We may both be narrow and limited in judgment,—never¬ 
theless, I think, with all due modesty, that his judgment 
is likely to be more limited than mine. But it’s no good 
talking about it,—this dear old land is given up to a sort 
of ignorant democracy, which only needs time to become 
anarchy, . . and we haven’t got a strong man among us 
who dares speak out the truth of the inevitable disasters 
looming above us all. And society is not only vulgar, 
but demoralized,—moreover, what is worse is, that, aided 
by its preachers and teachers, it is sinking into deeper 
depths of demoralization with every passing month and 
year of time.” 

Alwyn leaned back in his chair thoughtfully, a sorrow¬ 
ful expression clouding his face. 

“ Surely things are not so bad as they seem, Villiers,” 
—he said gently—“Are you not taking a pessimistic 
view of affairs ? ” 

“ Not at all! ” and Yilliers, warming with his subject, 
walked up and down the room excitedly . . “ Nor am I 
judging by the narrow observation of any particular ‘ set’ 
or circle. I look at the expressive visible outcome of the 
whole,—the plainly manifest signs of the threatening 
future. Of course there are ever so many good people,— 
earnest people,—thinking people,—but they are a mere 
handful compared to the overpowering millions opposed 
to them, and whose motto is ‘ Evil, be thou my good.’ 
Now you, for instance, are full of splendid ideas, and 
lucid plans of check and reform,—you are seized with a 
passionate desire to do something great for the world, 
and you are ready to speak the truth fearlessly on all 
occasions. But just think of the enormous task it would 
be to stir to even half an inch of aspiring nobleness, the 
frightful mass of corruption in London to-day! In all 
trades and professions it is the same story,—everything 
is a question of gain. To begin with, look at the Church, 
the ‘ Pillar of the State! ’ There, all sorts of worthless. 


ARDATH. 


445 


incompetent men are hastily thrust into livings by wealthy 
patrons who care not a jot as to whether they are morally 
or intellectually fit for their sacred mission,—and a dis¬ 
graceful universal muddle is the result. From this mud¬ 
dle, which resembles a sort of stagnant pool, emerge the 
strangest fungus-growths,—clergymen who take to act¬ 
ing a 4 miracle-play,’ ostensibly for the purposes of charity, 
but really to gratify their own tastes and leanings toward 
the mummer’s art,—all the time utterly regardless of the 
effect their behavior is likely to have on the minds of the 
unthinking populace, who are led by the newspapers, and 
who read therein bantering inquiries as to whether the 
Church is coquetting with the Stage ? whether the two 
are likely to become one ? and whether Religion will in 
the future occupy no more serious consideration than the 
Drama? What is one to think, when one sees clerical 
notabilities seated in the stalls of a theatre complacently 
looking on at the representation of a 4 society play ’ degrad¬ 
ing iM plot, repulsive in detail, and in nearly every case 
having to do with a married woman who indulges in a 
lover as a matter of course,—a play full of ambiguous side 
hits and equivocal jests, which, if the men of the Church 
were staunch to their vocation, they would be the first to 
condemn. Why, I saw the other day, in a fairly reliable 
journal, that some of these excellent 4 divines ’ were going 
to start 4 smoking sermons ’—a sort of imitation of smok¬ 
ing concerts, I suppose, which are vile enough, in all con¬ 
science,—but to mix up religious matters with the selfish 
«smoke mania ’ is viler still. I say that any clergyman 
who will allow men to smoke in his presence, while he is 
preaching sacred doctrine, is a coarse cad, and ought to be 
hounded out of the Church ! ” 

He paused, his face flushing with vigorous, righteous 
wrath. Alwyn’s eyes grew dark with an infinite pain. 
His thoughts always fled back to his Dream of Al-Kyris, 
with a tendency to draw comparisons between the Past 
and the Present. The religion of that long-buried city 
had been mere mummery and splendid outward show,— 
what was the religion of London ? He moved restlessly. 

44 IIow all the warnings of history repeat themselves! ” 
he said suddenly . . 44 An age of mockery, sham sentiment, 
and irreverence has always preceded a downfall,—can it 
be possible that we are already receiving hints of the 
downfall of England ? 


446 


AM) ATE. 


“ Aye, not only of England, but of a good many other 
nations besides,” said Yilliers—“ or if not actual downfall, 
change and terrific upheaval. France and England par¬ 
ticularly are the prey of the Demon of Realism,—and all 
the writers who should use their pens to inspire and ele¬ 
vate the people, assist in degrading them. When their 
books are not obscene, they are blasphemous. Russia, 
too, joins in the cry of Realism!—Realism! . . Let us 
have the filth of the gutters, the scourgings of dustholes, 
the corruption of graves, the odors of malaria, the howl- 
ings of drunkards, the revellings of sensualists, . . the 
worst side of the world in its vilest aspect, which is the 
only real aspect of those who are voluntarily vile! Let 
us see to what a reeking depth of unutterable shame¬ 
less brutality man can fall if he chooses—not as formerly, 
when it was shown to what glorious heights of noble 
supremacy he could rise ! For in this age, the heights are 
called ‘ transcendental folly ’—and the reeking depths are 
called Realism 1 ” 

u And yet what is Realism really ? ” queried Alwyn.— 
“ Does anybody know ? . . It is supposed to be the act¬ 
uality of everyday existence, without any touch of romance 
or pathos to soften its frequently hideous Commonplace; 
but the fact is, the Commonplace is not the Real. The 
highest flights of imagination in the human being fail to 
grasp the Reality of the splendors everywhere surround¬ 
ing him,—and, viewed rightly, Realism would become 
Romance and Romance Realism. We see a ragged 
woman in the streets picking up scraps for her daily 
food, . . that is what we may call realistic,—but we are 
not looking at the actual woman, after all! We cannot 
see her Inner Self, or form any certain comprehension of 
the possible romance or tragedy which that Inner Self 
has experienced, or is experiencing. We see the outer 
Appearance of the woman, but what of that ? . . The 
realism of the suffering creature’s hidden history lies be¬ 
yond us,—so far beyond us that it is called rornance , be¬ 
cause it seems so impossible to fathom or understand.” 

“ True, most absolutely true! ” said Yilliers emphati¬ 
cally—“ But it is a truth you will get very few to admit! . 
Everything to-day is in a State of substantiality and 
sham;—we haye even sham fve&lis'm, as well as sham 
! sentiment, sham religion, sham art, sham morality. We 
[Jiaye a Parliament that sits and jabbers lengthy platL 


ARDATB. 


447 


tudes that lead to nothing, while Army and Navy are 
slowly slipping into a state of helpless desuetude, and the 
mutterings of discontented millions are almost unre¬ 
garded ; the spectre of Revolution, assuming somewhat of 
the shape in which it appalled the French in 1789, is dimly 
approaching in the distance, . . even our London County 
Council bears the far-off, faint shadow of a very prosaic 
resemblance to the National Assembly of that era, . . and 
our weak efforts to cure cureless grievances, and to deafen 
our ears to crying evils, are very similar to the clumsy 
attempts made by Louis XVI. and his partisans to botch 
up a terribly bad business. Oh, the people, the people! . , 
They are unquestionably the flesh, blood, bone, and sinew 
of the country,—and the English people, say what sneerers 
will to the contrary, are a good people,—patient, plodding, 
forbearing, strong, and, on the whole, most equable-tern- 
pered,—but their teachers teach them wrongly, and con¬ 
fuse their brains instead of clearing them, and throw a 
weight of Compulsory Education at their heads, without 
caring how they may use it, or how such a blow from the 
clenched fist of Knowledge may stupefy and bewilder 
them, . . and the consequence is that now, were a strong 
man to arise, with a lucid brain, an eloquent power of 
expressing truth, a great sympathy with his kind, and an 
immense indifference to his own fate in the contest, he 
could lead this vast, waiting, wandering, growling, hydra, 
neaded London wheresoever he would! ” 

“ What an orator you are, Villiers! ” . . said Alwyn, 
with a half-smile. “I never heard you come out so 
strongly before! ” 

“ My dear fellow,” replied Villiers, in a calmer tone—. 
«it’s enough to make any man with warm blood in his 
veins feel! Everywhere signs of weakness, cowardice, 
compromise, hesitation, vacillation, incompetency, and 
everywhere, in thoughtful minds, the keen sense of a Fate 
advancing like the giant in the seven-leagued boots, at 
huge strides every day. The ponderous Law and the 
solid Police hem us in on each side, as though the nation 
were a helpless infant, toddling between two portly 
nurses,—we dare not denounce a scoundrel and liar, but; 
must needs put up with him, lest we should be involved 
in an action for libel; and we dare not knock down a vul¬ 
gar bully, lest we should be given in charge for assault. 
Hence, liars, and scoundrels, and vulgar bullies abound. 


448 


Alt DATE. 


and men skulk and grin, and play the double-face, till 
they lose all manfulness. Society sits smirking foolishly 
on the top of a smouldering volcano,—and the chief Sym¬ 
bols of greatness among us, Religion, Poesy, Art, are 
burning as feebly as tapers in the catacombs, . . the 
Church resembles a drudge, who, tired of routine, is grad¬ 
ually sinking into laziness and inertia* . . and the 
Press! . . ye gods! . . the Press ! ” 

Here speech seemed to fail him,—he threw himself into 
a chair, and, to relieve his mind, kicked away the adver¬ 
tisement sheet of the morning’s newspaper with so much 
angry vehemence that Alwyn laughed outright. 

“ What ails you now, Yilliers ? ” he demanded mirth¬ 
fully . . “You are a regular fire-eater—a would-be Cru¬ 
sader against a modern Saracen host! Why are you 
choked with such seemingly unutterable wrath! . . what 
of the Press ? . . it is at any rate free.” 

“ Free! ” cried Villiers, sitting bolt upright and shoot¬ 
ing out the word like a bullet from a gun,—“ Free ? . . 
the Press ? It is the veriest bound slave that was ever 
hampered by the chains of party prejudice,—and the only 
attempt at freedom it ever makes in its lower grades is an 
occasional outbreak into scurrility! And yet think what 
a majestic power for good the true, real Liberty of the 
Press might wield over the destinies of nations ! Broadly 
viewed, the Press should be the strong, practical, helping 
right hand of civilization, dealing out equal justice, equal 
sympathy, equal instruction,—it should be the fosterer of 
the arts and sciences,—the everyday guide of the morals 
and culture of the people,—it should not specially advo¬ 
cate any cause save Honor,—it should be as far as pos¬ 
sible the unanimous voice of the Nation. It should be,— 
but what is it? Look round and judge for yourself 
Every daily paper panders more or less to the lowest 
tastes of the mob,—while if the higher sentiments of 
man are not actually sneered at, they are made a sub¬ 
ject for feeble surprise, or vapid ‘gush.’ An act of 
heroic unselfishness meets with such a cackling chorus 
of amazed, half-bantering approval from the leading- 
article writers, that one is forced to accept the suggestion 
implied,—namely that to be heroic or unselfish is evidently 
an outbreak of noble instinct that is entirely unex¬ 
pected and remarkable,—nay, even eccentric and inexpli¬ 
cable! The spirit of mockery pervades everything, 


AUDATB. 


449 


—and while the story of a murder is allowed to occupy 
three and four columns of print, the account of som8 
great scientific discovery, or the report of some famous 
literary or artistic achievement is squeezed into a few 
lukewarm and unsatisfactory lines. I have seen a female 
paragraphist’s idiotic description of an actress’s gown 
allowed to take more space in a journal than the review 
of a first-class hook! Moreover, if an honest man, de¬ 
sirous of giving vent to an honest opinion on some crying 
abuse of the day, were to set forth that opinion in letter 
form and try to get it published in a leading and important 
newspaper, the chances are ten to one that it would never 
be inserted, unless he happened to know the editor, or 
one of the staff, and perhaps not even then, because, mark 
you! his opinion must be in accordance with the literary 
editor’s opinion, or it will be considered of no value to the 
world! Consider that gigantic absurdity! . . consider, 
that when we read our newspapers we are not learning the 
views of Europe on a certain point,—we are absorbing the 
ideas of the editor , to whom everything must be sub¬ 
mitted before insertion in the oracular columns we pin 
our faith on ! Thus it is that criticism,—literary criti¬ 
cism, at any rate,—is a lost art ,—you know that. A 
man must either be dead (or considered dead) or in a 
‘ clique ’ to receive any open encouragement at all from 
the so-called ‘ crack ’ critics. And the cliquey men are 
generally such stupendous bigots for their own particular 
and restricted form of ‘ style.’ Anything new they hate, 
—anything daring they treat with ridicule. Some of 
them have no hesitation in saying they prefer Matthew 
Arnold (remember he’s dead!) to Tennyson and Swin¬ 
burne (as yet living) . . while, as a fact, if we are to go 
by the high standards of poetical art left us by Shake¬ 
speare, Keats, Shelley, and Byron, Matthew Arnold is 
about the very tamest, most unimaginative, bald bard 
that ever kindled a lucifer match of verse and fancied it 
the fire of Apollo! It’s utterly impossible to get either a 
just or broad view of literature out of cliques,—and the 
Press, like many of our other ‘ magnificent ’ institutions, 
is working entirely on a wrong system. But who is 
going to be wise, or strong, or diplomatic enough to re¬ 
form it ? . . No one, at present,—and we shall jog along, 
and read up the details of vice in our dailies and weeklies, 
till we almost lose the savor of virtue, and till the last 
29 ~ ^ 


450 


ARDATH. 


degraded end comes of it all, and blatant young America 
thrones herself on the shores of Britain and sends her 
eagle screech of conquest echoing over Old World and 
New.” 

“ Don’t think it, Villiers ! ” exclaimed Alwyn im¬ 
petuously . . “ There is a mettle in the English that will 
never be conquered ! ” 

Villiers shrugged his shoulders. “We will hope so* 
my dear boy!” he said resignedly. “But the ‘mettle* 
under bad government, with bad weapons, and more or 
less untried ships, can scarcely be blamed if it should not 
be able to resist a tremendous force majeure. Besides, 
all the Parliaments in the world cannot upset the laws of y 
the universe. If things are false and corrupt, they must 
be swept away,—Nature will not have them,—she will 
transmute and transform them somehow, no matter at 
what cost. It is the cry of the old Prophets over again, 
—‘ Because ye have not obeyed God’s Law, therefore 
shall ye meet with destruction.’ Egoism is certainly not 
God’s Law, and we shall have to return on our imagined 
progressive steps, and be beaten with rods of affliction, 
till we understand what His Law is. It is, for one thing, 
the wheel that keeps this Universe going —our laws are 
no use whatever in the management of His sublime 
cosmos! Nations, like individuals, are punished for their 
own wilful misdeeds—the punishment may be tardy, but 
sure as death it comes. And I fancy America will be our 
‘ scourge in the Lord’s hand ’—as the Bible hath it. That 
pretty, dollar-crusted young Republican wants an aris¬ 
tocracy, . . she will engraft it on the old roots here,— 
in fact, she has already begun to engraft it. It is even 
on the cards that she may need a Monarchy—if she does, 
she will plant it . . here! Then it will be time for Eng¬ 
lishmen to adopt another country, and forget, if they can, 
their own disgraced nationality. And yet, if, as Shake¬ 
speare says, England were to herself but true,—if she 
had great statesmen as of yore,—intellectual, earnest, 
self-abnegating, fearless, unhesitating workers, who would 
devote themselves heart and soul to her welfare, she 
might gather, not only her Colonies, but America also, 
to her knee, as a mother gathers children, and the most 
magnificent Christian Empire the world has ever seen 
might rise up, a supreme marvel of civilization and union 
that would make all other nations wonder and revere. 


ABDATH. 


451 


But the selfishness of the day, and the ruling passion of 
gain, are the fatal obstructions in the path of such a de¬ 
sirable millennium.” 

He ended abruptly—he had unburdened his mind to 
one who he knew understood him and sympathized with 
him, and he turned to the perusal of some letters just 
received. 

The two friends were sitting that morning in the break¬ 
fast-room,—a charming little octagonal apartment, look¬ 
ing out on a small, very small garden, which, despite the 
London atmosphere, looked just now very bright with 
tastefully arranged parterres of white and yellow crocuses, 
mingled with the soft blue of the dainty hepatica,—that 
frank-faced little blossom which seems to express such 
an honest confidence in the goodness of God’s sky. A 
few sparrows of dissipated appearance were bathing their 
sooty plumes in a pool of equally sooty water left in the 
garden as a token of last night’s rain, and they splashed 
and twittered and debated and fussed with each other 
concerning their ablutions, with almost as much im¬ 
portance as could have been displayed by the effeminate 
Romans of the Augustan era when disporting themselves 
in their sumptuous Thermae. Alwyn’s eyes rested on 
them unseeingly,—his thoughts were very far away from 
all his surroundings. Before his imagination rose a 
Gehenna-like picture of the world in which he had to live, 
—the world of fashion and form and usage,—the world 
he was to try and rouse to a sense of better things. A 
Promethean task indeed ! to fill human life with new 
symbols of hope,—to set up a white standard of faith 
amid the swift rushing on and reckless tramping down 
of desperate battle,—to pour out on all, rich or poor, 
worthy or unworthy, the divine-born balm of Sympathy, 
which, when given freely and sincerely from man to man, 
serves often as a check to vice—a silent, yet all eloquent^ 
rebuke to crime,—and can more easily instill into re¬ 
fractory intelligences things of God and desires for good, 
than any preacher’s argument, no matter how finely 
worded. To touch the big, wayward, better heart of Hu¬ 
manity ! . . could he in very truth*do it? . . Or was the 
work too vast for his ability? Tormented by various 
cross-currents of feeling, he gave vent to a troubled sigh 
and looked dubiously at his friend. 

In gueh a state of things as you describe* Villierss,” b* 


abbA rm 


'452 

aid, “ what a useless unit / am! A Poet!—who wants 
me in this age of Sale and Barter? . . Is not a producer of 
poems always considered more or less of a fool nowadays, 
no matter how much his works may be in fashion for the 
moment ? I am sure, in spite of the success of ‘ Nour- 
hctlma ,’ that the era of poetry has passed; and, moreover, 
it certainly seems to have given place to the very baldest 
and most unbeauteous forms of prose! As, for instance, 
if a book is written which contains what is called ‘ poetic 
prose ’ the critics are all ready to denounce it as ‘ turgid,’ 

* overladen,’ ‘ strained for effect,’ and ‘hysterical sublime.’ 
Heine’s Reisebilder , which is one of the most exquisite 
poems in prose ever given to the world, is nearly incom¬ 
prehensible to the majority of English minds; so much 
so, indeed, that the English translators in their rendering 
of it have not only lost the delicate glamour of its fairy¬ 
like fancifulness, but have also blunted all the fine points 
of its dazzling sarcasm and wealth of imagery. It is evi¬ 
dent enough that the larger mass of people prefer medi¬ 
ocrity to high excellence, else such a number of merely 
mediocre works of art would not, and could not, be toler¬ 
ated. And as long as mediocrity is permitted to hold 
ground, it is almost an impossibility to do much toward 
raising the standard of literature. The few who love the 
best authors are as a mere drop in the ocean of those who 
not only choose the worst, but who also fail to see any 
difference between good and bad.” 

“True enough!” assented Yilliers,—“Still the ‘few’ 
you speak of are worth all the rest. For the ‘ few ’ Homer 
wrote,—Plato, Marcus Aurelius, Epictetus,—and the 

* few ’ are capable of teaching the majority, if they will 
only set about it rightly. But at present they are setting 
about it wrongly. All children are taught to read, but no 
child is guided in what to read. This is like giving a 
loaded gun to a boy and saying, ‘ Shoot away! . . No 
matter in which direction you point your aim, . . shoot 
yourself if you like, and others too,—anyhow, you’ve got 
the gun ! ’ Of course there are a few fellows who have 
occasionally drawn up a list of books as suitable for 
everybody’s perusal,—but then these lists cannot be taken 
as true criterions, as they all differ from one another as 
much as church sects. One would-be instructor in the 
art of reading says we ought all to study ‘ Tom Jones ’— 
now I don*fc se§ the necessity of that! And, oddly 


ARDATB. 


453 


enough, these lists scarcely ever include the name of a 
poet,—which is the absurdest mistake ever made. A 
liberal education in the highest works of poesy is abso¬ 
lutely necessary to the thinking abilities of man. But, 
Alwyn, you need not trouble yourself about what is good 
for the million and what isn’t, . . whatever you write is 
sure to be read now —you’ve got the ear of the public,— 
the ‘fair, large ear’ of the ass’s head which disguises 
Bottom the Weaver, who frankly says of himself, ‘I am 
such a tender ass, if my hair do but tickle me, I must 
scratch! ’ ” 

Alwyn smiled. He was thinking of what his Shadow- 
Self had said on this very subject—“ A book or poem, to 
be great, and keep its greatness hereafter, must be judged 
by the natural instinct of peoples. This world-wide de¬ 
cision has never yet been, and never will be, hastened by 
any amount of written criticism,—it is the responsive 
beat of the enormous Pulse of Life that thrills through all 
mankind, high and low, gentle and simple,—its great 
throbs are slow and solemnly measured, yet if once it an¬ 
swers to a Poet’s touch, that Poet’s name is made glorious 
forever! ” He . . in the character of Sah-lftma . . had 
seemed to utter these sentiments many ages ago,—and 
now the words repeated themselves in his thoughts with 
a new and deep intensity of meaning. 

“Of course,” added Villiers suddenly—“you must ex¬ 
pect plenty of adverse criticism now, as it is known be¬ 
yond all doubt that you are alive and able to read what is 
written concerning you,—but if you once pay attention to 
critics, you may as well put aside pen altogether, as it is 
the business of these worthies never to be entirely satis¬ 
fied with anything. Even Shelley and Byron, in the criti¬ 
cal capacity, abused Keats, till the poor, suffering youth, 
who promised to be greater then either of them, died of a 
broken heart as much as disease. This sort of injustice 
will go on to the end of time, or till men become more 
Christianized than Paul’s version of Christianity has ever 
yet made them.” 

Here a knock at the door interrupted the conversation. 
The servant entered, bringing a note gorgeously crested 
and coroneted in gold. Villiers, to whom it was addressed, 
opened and read it. 

“What shall we do about this?” he asked, when his 
man had retired. “ It is an invitation from the Duchess de 


454 


ARDATH. 


la SantoLie. She asks us to go and dine with her next 
week,—a party of twenty—reception afterward. I think 
we’d better accept,—what do you say ? ” 

Alwyn roused himself from his reverie. “ Anything to 
please you, my dear boy! ” he answered cheerfully—“But 
I haven’t the faintest idea who the Duchess de la Santoisie 
is!” 

“No? . . Well, she’s an Englishwoman who has mar¬ 
ried a French Duke. He is a delightful old fellow, the 
pink of courtesy, and the model of perfect egotism. A 
true Parisian, and of course an atheist,— a very polished 
atheist, too, with a most charming reliance on his own 
infallibility. His wife writes novels which have a slight 
leaning toward Zolaism,—she is an extremely witty woman 
sarcastic, and cold-blooded enough to be a female Robes¬ 
pierre, yet, on the whole, amusing as a study of what 
curious nondescript forms the feminine nature can adopt 
unto itself, if it chooses. She has an immense respect for 
genius ,—mind, I say genius advisedly, because she really is 
one of those rare few who cannot endure mediocrity. 
Everything at her house is the best of its kind, and the 
people she entertains are the best of theirs. Her welcome 
of you will be at any rate a sincerely admiring one,—and 
as I think, in spite of your desire for quiet, you will haves 
to show yourself somewhere, it may as well be there.” 

Alwyn looked dubious, and not at all resigned to the 
prospect of “ showing himself.” 

“ Your description of her does not strike me as partic¬ 
ularly attractive,”—he said—“ I cannot endure that nine¬ 
teenth-century hermaphroditic production, a mannish 
woman.” 

“ Oh but she isn’t altogether mannish,”—declared 
Yilliers, . . “ Besides, I mustn’t forget to add, that she is 
extremely beautiful.” 

Alwyn shrugged his shoulders indifferently. His friend 
noticed the gesture and laughed. 

“ Still impervious to beauty, old boy ? ”—he said gayly 
-—■“ You always were, I remember! ” 

Alwyn flushed a little, and rose from his chair. 

“Not always,”—-he answered steadily,—“There have 
been times in my life when the beauty of women,—mere 
physical beauty,—has exercised great influence over me. 
But I have lately learned how a fair face may sometimes 
mask a foul mind,—and unless I can see the Substance 


ARB A TH. 


455 


of Soul looking through the Semblance of Body, then I 
know that the beauty I seem to behold is mere Appearance, 
and not Reality.. Hence, unless your beautiful Duchess 
be like the ‘King’s daughter’ of David’s psalm, ‘all 
glorious within ’—her apparent loveliness will have no 
charm for me!—Now ”—and he smiled, and spoke in a less 
serious tone . . “if you have no objection, I am off to my 
room to scribble for an hour or so. Come for me if you 
want me—you know I don’t in the least mind being 
disturbed.” 

But Villiers detained him a moment, and looked in¬ 
quisitively at him full in the eyes. 

“You’ve got some singular new attraction about you, 
Alwyn,”—he said, with a strange sense of keen inward 
excitement as he met his friend’s calm yet flashing glance, 
■—“ Something mysterious, . . something that compels! 
What is it? . . I believe that visit of yours to the Ruins 
of Babylon had a more important motive than you will 
admit, . . moreover . . I believe you are in love! ” 

“ In love! ”—Alwyn laughed a little as he repeated the 
words. . “ What a foolish term that is when you come to 
•think of it! For to be in love suggests the possibility of 
getting out again,—which, if love be true, can never 
happen. Say that I love !—and you will be nearer the 
mark ! Now don’t look so mystified, and don’t ask me 
any more questions just now—to-night, when we are sit¬ 
ting together in the library, I’ll tell you the whole story 
of my Babylonian adventure! ” 

And with a light parting wave of the hand he left the 
room, and Villiers heard him humming a tune softly to him¬ 
self as he ascended the stairs to his own apartments, where, 
ever since he arrived, he had made it his custom to do 
two or three hours’ steady writing every morning. For 
a moment or so after he had gone Villiers stood lost in 
thought, with knitted brows and meditative eyes, then, 
rousing himself, he went on to his study, and sitting 
down at his desk wrote an answer to the Duchess de & 
Santoisie accepting her invitation. 


456 


ARDATH. 


CHAPTER XXXIY. 

REWARDS OF FAME. 

An habitual resident in London who is gifted with a 
keen faculty of hearing and observation, will soon learn 
to know instinctively the various characteristics of the 
people who call upon him, by the particular manner in 
which each one handles his door-bell or knocker. He will 
recognize the timid from the bold, the modest from the 
arrogant, the meditative thinker from the bustling man of 
fashion, the familiar friend from the formal acquaintance. 
Every individual’s method of announcing his or her 
arrival to the household is distinctly different,—and Yil- 
liers, who studied a little of everything, had not failed 
to take note of the curiously diversified degrees of single 
and double rapping by means of which his visitors 
sought admittance to his abode. In fact, he rather 
prided himself on being able to guess with almost in¬ 
variable correctness what special type of man or woman 
was at his door, provided he could hear the whole dia¬ 
pason of their knock from beginning to end. When he 
was shut in his “ den,” however, the sounds w r ere muffled 
by distance, and he could form no just judgment,—some¬ 
times, indeed, he did not hear them at all, especially if lie 
happened to be playing his ’cello at the time. So that this 
morning he was considerably startled, w T hen, having fin, 
[shed his letter to the Duchess de la Santoisie, a long and 
persistent rat-tat-tatting echoed noisily through the house, 
like the smart, quick blows of a carpenter’s hammer—a 
species of knock that was entirely unfamiliar to him, and 
that, while so emphatic in character, suggested to his 
mind neither friend nor foe. lie laid down his pen, list¬ 
ened and waited. In a minute or two his servant entered 
the room. 

“ If you please, sir, a lady to see Mr. Alwyn. Shall 1 
show her up ? ” 

Yilliers rose slowly out of his chair, and stood eyeing 
his man in blank bewilderment. 

“ A lady / f , To see Mr. Alwyn! ’’—lie repeated, his 


AMD ATM. 457 

thoughts instantly reverting to his friend’s vaguely hinted 
love-affair,—“ What name ? ” 

“ She gives no name, sir. She says it isn’t needed,— 
Mr. Alwyn will know who she is.” 

“ Mr. Alwyn will know who she is, will he ? ” mur¬ 
mured Villiers dubiously.—“ What is she like ? Young 
and pretty ? ” 

Over the man-servant’s staid countenance came the 
glimmer of a demure, respectful smile. 

“ Oh no, sir,—not young, sir! A person about fifty, I j 
should say.” 

This was mystifying. A person about fifty! Who 
could she be ? Villiers hastily considered,—there must 
be some mistake, he thought,—at any rate, he would see 
the unknown intruder himself first, and find out what 
her business was, before breaking in upon Alwyn’s peace¬ 
ful studies upstairs. 

“ Show the lady in here ”—he said—“ I can’t disturb 
Mr. Alwyn just now.” 

The servant retired, and soon re-appeared, ushering in 
a tall, gaunt, black-robed female, who walked with the 
stride of a dragoon and the demeanor of a police-inspector, 
and who, merely nodding briskly in response to Villiers’c 
amazed bow, selected with one comprehensive glance the 
most comfortable chair in the room, and seated herself at 
ease therein. She then put up her veil, displaying a long, 
narrow face, cold*, pale, arrogant eyes, a nose inclined to 
redness at the tip, and a thin, close-set mouth lined with 
little sarcastic wrinkles, which came into prominent and 
unbecoming play as soon as she began to speak, which 
she did almost immediately. 

“ I suppose I had better introduce myself to you, Mr. 
Alwyn ”—she said with a condescending and confident 
air—“ Though really we know each other so well by repu¬ 
tation that there seems scarcely any necessity for it! Of 
course you have heard of ‘ Tiger-Lily! ’ ” 

Villiers gazed at her helplessly,—he had never felt so. 
uncomfortable in all his life. Here was a strange woman, 
who had actually taken bodily possession of his apartment 
as though it were her own,—who had settled herself down 
in his particular pet Louis Quatorze chair,—who stared 
at him with the scrutinizing complacency of a professional 
physiognomist,—and who seemed to think no explanation 
of her extraordinary conduct was necessary, inasmuch as 


458 


ABLATE. 


“ of course ” he, Yilliers, had heard of “ Tiger-Lily ! ” It 
was very singular! . . almost like madness! . . . Perhaps 
she was mad ! How could he tell ? She had a remark¬ 
ably high, knobby brow,—a brow with an unpleasantly 
bald appearance, owing to the uncompromising way in 
which her hair was brushed well off it—he had seen such 
brows before in certain “ spiritualists ” who believed, or 
pretended to believe, in the suddenly willed dematerial¬ 
ization of matter, and they were mad, he knew, or else 
evry foolishly feigning madness ! 

Endeavoring to compose his bewildered mind, he fixed 
glass in eye, and regarded her through it with an inquir. 
ing solemnity,—he would have spoken, but before he 
could utter a word, she went on rapidly : 

“ You are not in the least like the person I imagined 
you to be! . . However, that doesn’t matter. Literary 
celebrities are always so different to what we expect! ” 

“ Pardon me, madam,”—began Yilliers politely . . 
“You are making a slight error,—my servant probably 
did not explain. I am not Mr. Alwyn, . . my name is 
Yilliers. Mr. Alwyn is my guest,—but he is at present 
very much occupied,—and unless your business is ex¬ 
tremely urgent.” 

“ Certainly it is urgent”—said the lady decisively . . 
“ otherwise I should not have come. And so you are not 
Mr. Alwyn! Well, I thought you couldn’t be! Now 
then, will you have the kindness to tell Mr. Alwyn I am 
here ? ” 

By this time Yilliers had recovered his customary selr- 
possession, and he met her commanding glance with •«* 
somewhat defiant coolness. 

“ I am not aware to whom I have the honor of speak* 
ing,” he said frigidly. “ Perhaps you will oblige me with 
your name ? ” 

“ My name doesn’t in the least matter,” she replied 
calmly—“ though I will tell you afterward if you wish 
But you don’t seem to understand \ ... I am ‘ Tiger 
Lily’!” 

The situation was becoming ludicrous. Yilliers felt 
strongly disposed to laugh. 

“I’m afraid I am very ignorant!”—he said, with a 
humorous sparkle in his blue eyes,—“But really I am 
quite in the dark as to your meaning. Will you 
explain?” 



ARB ATM. 


459 

The lady’s nose grew deeper of tint, and the look 
she shot at him had quite a killing vindictiveness. With 
evident difficulty she forced a smile. 

“ Cffi> you must have heard of me ! ’’—-she declared, with 
a ponderous attempt at playfulness—“You read the 
papers, don’t you ? ” 

“ Some of them,” returned Villiers cautiously—“Not 
all. Not the Sunday ones, for instance.” 

“ Still, you can’t possibly have helped seeing my de¬ 
scriptions of famous people ‘At Home,’ you know! I 
write for ever so many journals. I think ”—and she be¬ 
came complacently reflective—“ I think I may say with 
perfect truth that I have interviewed everybody w T ho has 
ever done anything worth noting, from our biggest 
provision dealer to our latest sensational novelist! And 
all my articles are signed ‘ Tiger-Lily.’ Now do you 
remember ? Oh, you must remember ? . . I am so very 
well .known! ” 

There was a touch of genuine anxiety in her voice that 
was almost pathetic, but Villiers made no attempt to 
soothe her wounded vanity. 

“ I have no recollection whatever of the name,” he said 
bluntly—“ But that is easily accounted for, as I never 
read newspaper descriptions of celebrities. So you are 
an ‘ interviewer ’ for the Press ? ” 

“ Exactly! ” and the lady leaned back more comfortably 
in the Louis Quatorze fauteuil—“ And of course I want 
to interview Mr. Alwyn. I want . .” here drawing out a 
business looking note-book from her pocket she opened it 
and glanced at the different headings therein enumerated, 
—“ I want to describe his personal appearance,—to know 
when lie was born, and where he was educated,—whether 
his father or mother had literary tastes,—whether he had, 
or has, brothers or sisters, or both,—whether he is married, 
or likely to be, and how much money he has made by his 
book.” She paused and gave an upward glance at Villiers, 
who returned it with a blank and stony stare. 

“ Then,”—she resumed energetically—“ I wish to know 
what are his methods of work ;—where he gets his ideas 
and how he elaborates them,—how many hours he writes 
at a time, and whether he is an early riser,—also what 
he usually takes for dinner,—whether he drinks wine or 
is a total abstainer, and at What hour he retires to rest. 
Ail this is so intensely interesting to th© public \ Perhaps 


4&0 


A ED ATI!. 


he might be inclined to give me a few notes of his recent 
tour in the East, and of course I should be very glad if he 
will state his opinions on the climate, customs, and govern¬ 
ments of the countries through which he has passed. It’s 
a great pity this is not his own house,—it is a pretty place 
and a description of it would read well. Let me see! ”—• 
and she meditated,—“ I think I could manage to insert a 
few lines about this apartment, . . it would be easy to 
say ‘ the picturesque library in the house of the Honble. 
Francis Yilliers, where Mr. Alwyn received me,’ etc.,— 
Yes! that would do very well!—very well indeed! I 
should like to know whether he has a residence of his own 
anywhere, and if not, whether he intends to take one in 
London, because in the latter case it would be as well to 
ascertain by whom he intends to have it furnished. A 
little discussion on upholstery is so specially fascinating to 
my readers! Then, naturally, I am desirous to learn how 
the erroneous rumor of his death was first started, . . 
whether in the course of his travels he met with some 
serious accident, or illness, which gave rise to the report. 
Now,”—and she shut her note-book and folded her hands, 
—“ I don’t mind waiting an hour or more if necessary,— 
but I am sure if you will tell Mr. Alwyn who I am, and 
what I have come for, he will be only too delighted to see 
me with as little delay as possible.” 

She ceased. Yilliers drew a long breath,—his com¬ 
pressed lips parted in a slightly sarcastic smile. Squar¬ 
ing his shoulders with that peculiar pugnacious gesture 
of his which always indicated to those who knew him 
well that his mind was made up, and that nothing would 
induce him to alter it, he said in a tone of stiff civility: 

“ I am sorry, madam, . . very sorry ! . . but I am com¬ 
pelled to inform you that your visit here is entirely use¬ 
less! Were I to tell my friend of the purpose you have 
in view concerning him, he would not feel so much flat¬ 
tered as you seem to imagine, but rather insulted! Ex¬ 
cuse my frankness,—you have spoken plainly,—I must 
Ispeak plainly too. Provision dealers and sensational 
story writers may find that it serves their purpose to be 
interviewed, if only as a means of gaining extra adver¬ 
tisement, but a truly great and conscientious author like 
Theos Alwyn is quite above all that sort of thing ” 

The lady raised her pale eyebrows with an expression 
of interrogative scorn. 


ABDATS. ' 


461 


il Above all that sort of thing! ” she echoed incredu¬ 
lously—“ Dear me! How very extraordinary 1 I have 
always found all our celebrities so exceedingly pleased to 
be given a little additional notoriety! . and X should have 
thought a poet” this with much depreciative emphasis— 
“ would have been particularly glad of the chance! Because, 
of course you know that unless a very astonishing suc¬ 
cess is made, as in the case of Mr. Alwyn’s ‘ Nourlioilma] 
people really take such slight interest in writers of verse, 
that it is hardly ever worth while interviewing them ! ” 

“ Precisely ! ” agreed Villiers ironically,—“ The private 
history of a prize-fighter would naturally be much more 
thrilling! ” lie paused,—his temper was fast rising, but, 
quickly reflecting that, after all, the indignation he felt 
was not so much against his visitor as against the system 
she represented, he resumed quietly, “ May I ask you, 
madam, whether you have ever 1 interviewed ’ Her Maj¬ 
esty the Queen ? ” 

Her glance swept slightingly over him. 

“ Certainly not! Such a thing would be impossible! ” 

“ Then you have never thought,” went on Villiers, with 
a thrill of earnestness in his manly, vibrating voice— 
“ that it might be quite as impossible to 4 interview ’ a great 
Poet ?—who, if great indeed, is in every way as royal as 
any Sovereign that ever adorned a throne! I do not 
speak of petty verse-writers,—I say a great Poet, by which 
term I imply a great creative genius who is honestly 
faithful to his high vocation. Such an one could no 
more tell you his methods of work than a rainbow could 
prattle about the way it shines,—and as for his personal 
history, I should like to know by what right society is 
entitled to pry into the sacred matters of a man’s private 
life, simply because he happens to be famous ? I consider 
the modern love of prying and probing into other people’s 
affairs a most degrading and abominable sign of the 
times,—it is morbid, unwholesome, and utterly comtemp- ■ 
tible. Moreover, I think that writers who consent to be 
‘ interviewed ’ condemn themselves as literary charlatans, 
unworthy of the profession they have wrongfully adopted. 
You see I have the courage of my opinions on this matter, 
—in fact, I believe, if every one were to speak their hon¬ 
est mind openly, a better state of things might be the 
result, and ‘ interviewing ’ would gradually come to be 
considered in its true light, namely, as a vulgar and file- 


462 


ABB ATE. 


gitimate method of advertisement. I mean no disrespect 
to you, madam,”—this, as the lady suddenly put down 
her veil, thrust her note-book in her pocket, and rose 
somewhat bouncingly from her chair—“ I am only sorry 
you should find such an occupation as that of the ‘ inter¬ 
viewer ’ open to you. I can. scarcely imagine such work 
to be congenial to a lady’s feelings, as, in the case of 
really distinguished personages, she must assuredly meet 
with many a rebuff! I hope I have not offended you by 
my bluntness, .... ”—here he trailed off into inaudible 
polite murmurs, while the “ Tiger-Lily ” marched steadily 
toward the door. 

“ Oh dear, no, I am not in the least offended! ” she re¬ 
torted contemptuously,—“ On the contrary, this has been 
a most amusing experience!—most amusing, I assure you! 
and quite unique! Why—” and suddenly stopping short, 
she turned smartly round and gesticulated with one 
hand . . . “ I have interviewed all the favorite actors and 
actresses in London! The biggest brewers in Great Britain 
have received me at their country mansions, and have given 
me all the particulars of their lives from earliest child¬ 
hood! The author of ‘ Hugger Mugger's Curse ’ took the 
greatest pains to explain to me how lie first collected the 
materials for his design. The author of that most popu¬ 
lar story, ‘ Darling's Tvnns ,’ gave me a description of all 
the houses he has ever lived in,—he even told me where 
he purchased his writing-paper, pens, and ink! And to 
think that a poet should be too grand to be interrogated! 
Oh, the idea is really very funny ! . . quite too funny for 
anything! ” She gave a short laugh,—then relapsing 
into severity, she added . . “ You will, I hope, tell Mr. 
Alwyn I called ? ” 

Villiers bowed. “ Assuredly ! ” 

“ Thank you ! Because it is possible he may have dif¬ 
ferent opinions to yours,— in that case, if he writes me a 
line, fixing an appointment, I shall be very pleased to call 
again. I will leave my card,—and if Mr. Alwyn is a sensi¬ 
ble man, he will certainly hold broader ideas on the sub¬ 
ject of ‘interviewing’ than you appear to entertain. 
You are quite sure I cannot see him ?” 

“ Quite! ”—There was no mistake about the firm em¬ 
phasis of this reply. 

“ Oh, very well! ’’—here she opened the door, rattling 
the handle with rather an unnecessary violence,—“ I’m 


ABBATH. 463 

sorry to have taken up any of your time, Mr. Yilliers. 
Good-morning! ” 

“ Good-morning! ” . . returned Yilliers calmly, touching 
the bell that his servant might be in readiness to show 
her out. But the baffled “ Tiger-Lily ” was not altogether 
gone. She looked back, her face wrinkling into one of 
those strangely unbecoming expressions of grim playful¬ 
ness. 

“ I’ve half a mind to make an 4 At Home ’ out of you ! ” 
she said, nodding at him energetically. “Only you’re 
not important enough! ” 

Yilliers burst out laughing. He was not proof against 
this touch of humor, and on a sudden good-natured im¬ 
pulse, sprang to the door and shook hands with her. 

“No, indeed, I am not!” he said, with a charming 
smile—“ Think of it!—I haven’t even invented a new bis¬ 
cuit! Come, let me see you into the hall,—I’m really 
sorry if I’ve spoken roughly, but I assure you Alwyn’s 
not at all the sort of man you want for interviewing,— 
he’s far too modest and noble-hearted. Believe me!— 
I’m not romancing a bit—I’m in earnest. There are some 
few fine, manly, gifted fellows left in the world, who do 
their work for the love of the work alone, and not for the 
sake of notoriety, and he is one of them. Now I’m not 
certain, if you were quite candid with me, you’d admit 
that you yourself don’t think much of the people who 
actually like to be interviewed?” 

His amiable glance, his kindly manner, took the gaunt 
female by surprise, and threw her quite off her guard. 
She laughed,—a natural, unforced laugh in which there 
was not a trace of bitterness. He was really a delightful 
young man, she thought, in spite of his old-fashioned, out- 
of-the-way notions! 

“Well, perhaps I don’t!” she replied frankly—“But 
you see it is not my business to think about them at. all. 
I simply 4 interview ’ them,—and I generally find they are 
very willing, and often eager, to tell me all about them¬ 
selves, even to quite trifling and unnecessary details. 
And, of course, each one thinks himself or herself the only 
or the chief 4 celebrity ’ in London, or, for that matter, in 
the world. I have always to tone down the egotistical 
part of it a little, especially with authors, for if I were to 
write out exactly what they separately say of their con¬ 
temporaries, it would be simply frightful! They would 


464 


ARDATH. 


be all at daggers drawn in no time! I assure you 
‘interviewing’ is often a most delicate and difficult busi¬ 
ness ! ” 

“Would it were altogether impossible!” said Villiers 
heartily—“ But as long as there is a plethora of little au¬ 
thors, and a scarcity of great ones, so long, I suppose, 
must it continue—for little men love notoriety, and great 
ones shrink from it, just in the same way that good women 
like flattery, while bad ones court it. I hope you don’t 
bear me any grudge because I consider my friend Alwyn 
both good and great, and resent the idea of his being 
placed, no matter with what excellent intention soever, on 
the level of the small and mean?” 

The lady surveyed him with a twinkle of latent 
approval in her pale-colored eyes. 

“Not in the least!” she replied in a tone of perfect 
good-humor. “On the contrary, I rather admire your 
frankness! Still, I think, that as matters stand nowadays, 
you are very odd,—and I suppose your friend is odd too,— 
but, of course, there must be exceptions to every rule. At 
the same time, you should recollect that, in many people’s 
opinion, to be ‘ interviewed ’ is one of the chiefest rewards 
of fame!—” Villiers shrugged his shoulders expressively. 
“ Oh, yes, it seems a poor reward to you, no doubt,”— 
she continued smilingly,—“but there are no end of au¬ 
thors who would do anything to secure the notoriety of 
it! Now, suppose that, after all, Mr. Alwyn does care to 
submit to the operation, you will let me know, won’t 
you ? ” 

“ Certainly I will! ”—and Villiers, accepting her card, 
on which was inscribed her own private name and address, 
shook hands once more, and bowed her courteously out. 
No sooner had the door closed upon her than he sprang 
upstairs, three steps at a time, and broke impetuously in 
upon Alwyn, who, seated at a table covered with papers, 
looked up with a surprised smile at the abrupt fashion of 
his entrance. In a few minutes he had disburdened him¬ 
self of the whole story of the “ Tiger-Lily’s ” visit, telling 
it in a whimsical way of his own, much to the amusement 
of his friend, who listened, pen in hand, with a half¬ 
laughing, half-perplexed light in his fine, poetic eyes. 

“ Now did I express the proper opinion ? ” he demanded 
in conclusion. “Was I not right in thinking you would 
never consent to be interviewed ? ” 


ARDATH. 


465 


“ Right ? Why of course you were! ”—responded 
Alwyn quickly. “ Can you imagine me calmly stating 
the details of my personal life and history to a strange 
woman, and allowing her to turn it into a half-guinea 
article for some society journal! But, Yilliers, what an 
extraordinary state of things we are coming to, if the 
Press can actually condescend to employ a sort of spy, or 
literary detective, to inquire into the private experience 
of each man or woman who comes honorably to the 
front! ” 

“ Honorably or dishonorably,—it doesn’t matter 
which,”—said Yilliers, “ That is just the worst of it. 
One day it is an author who is 4 interviewed,’ the next it 
is a murderer,—now a statesman,—then a ballet dancer,— 
the same honor is paid to all who have won any distinct 
notoriety. And what is so absurd is, that the reading 
million don’t seem able to distinguish between ‘ notoriety ’ 
and ‘ fame.’ The two things are so widely, utterly apart! 
Byron’s reputation, for instance, was much more notoriety 
during his life than fame—while Keats had actually laid 
hold on fame while as yet deeming himself unfamous. It’s 
curious, but true, nevertheless, that very often the writers 
who thought least of themselves during their lifetime 
have become the most universally renowned after their 
deaths. Shakespeare, I dare say, had no very exaggerated 
idea of the beauty of his own plays,—he seems to have 
written just the best that was in him, without caring what 
anybody thought of it. And I believe that is the only 
way to succeed in the end.” 

“ In the end ! ” repeated Alwyn dreamily—“ In the ena, 
no worldly success is worth attaining,—a few thousand 
years and the greatest are forgotten ! ” 

“Not the greatest ,”—said Yilliers warmly—“The 
greatest must always be remembered.” 

“ No, my friend!—Not even the greatest! Do you not 
think there must have been great and wise and gifted men 
in Tyre, in Sidon, in Carthage, in Babylon ?—There are 
five men mentioned in Scripture, as being ‘ready to write 
swiftly’—Sarea, Dabria, Selemia, Ecanus, and Asiel— 
where is the no doubt admirable work done by these? 
Perhaps . . who knows ? . one of them was as great as 
Homer in genius,—we cannot tell! ” 

“ True,—we cannot tell! ” responded Yilliers medita¬ 
tively—“ But, Alwyn, if you persist in viewing things 
30 



/'jo znBAmr . 

i : /a > V 

through such tremendous vistas of time, and in measur¬ 
ing the Future by the Past, then one may ask what is the 
use of anything ? ” 

u There is no use in anything, except in the making of 
a strong, persistent, steady effort after good,” said Alwyn 
earnestly. . . “We men are cast, as it were, between two 
swift currents, Wrong and Right,—Self and God,—and it 
seems more easy to shut our eyes and drift into Self and 
Wrong, than to strike out brave arms, and swim, despite 
all difficulty, toward God and Right, yet if we once take 
the latter course, we shall find it the most natural and the 
least fatiguing. And with every separate stroke of high 
endeavor we carry others with us,—we raise our race,—we 
bear it onward,—upward! And the true reward, or 
best result of fame, is, that having succeeded in winning 
brief attention from the multitude, a man may be able to 
pronounce one of God’s lightning messages of inspired 
Truth plainly to them, while they are yet willing to stand 
and listen. This momentary hearing from the people is, 
as I take it, the sole reward any writer can dare to hope for, 
—and when he obtains it, he should remember that his 
audience remains with him but a very short while, —so 
that it is his duty to see that he employ his chance well , 
not to win applause for himself, but to cheer and lift 
others to noble thought, and still more noble fulfil¬ 
ment.” 

Villiers regarded him wistfully. 

“ Alwyn, my dear fellow, do you want to be the Sisyphus 
of this era ?—You will find the stone of Evil heavy to roll 
upward,—moreover, it will exhibit the usually painful 
tendency to slip back and crush you! ” 

“ How can it crush me ? ” asked his friend with a serene 
smile. “ My heart cannot be broken, or my spirit dis¬ 
mayed, and as for my body, it can but die,—and death 
comes to every man! I would rather try to roll up the 
stone, however fruitless the task, than sit idly looking at 
it, and doing nothing! ” 

“Your heart cannot be broken? Ah! how do you 
know ” . . and Villiers shook his head dubiously—“ V%at 
man can be certain of his own destiny ? ” 

“ Every man can toiTZhis own destiny,”—returned Alwyn 
nrmly. “ That is just it. But here we are getting into 
a serious discussion, and I had determined to talk no more 
on such subjects till to-night.” 


ABDATH. 467 

“ And to-night we are to go in for them thoroughly, I 
suppose ? ”—inquired Yilliers with a quick look. 

“ To-night, my dear boy, you will have to decide whether 
you consider me mad or sane,” said Alwyn cheerfully— 
44 1 shall tell you truths that seem like romances—and 
facts that sound like fables,—moreover, I shall have to 
assure you that miracles do happen whenever God chooses, 
in spite of all human denial of their possibility. Do you 
remember Whately’s clever skit— 4 Historical Doubts of 
Napoleon I .’ ?—showing how easy it was to logically prove 
that Napoleon never existed?—That ought to enlighten 
people as to the very precise and convincing manner in 
which we can, if we choose, argue away what is neverthe¬ 
less an incontestible fact. Thus do skeptics deny miracles 
—yet we live surrounded by miracles! . . do you think 
me crazed for saying so ? ” 

Yilliers laughed. “ Crazed! No, indeed!—I wish every 
man in London were as sane and sound as you are ! ” 

“ Ah, but wait till to-night! ” and AlvvyiTs eyes sparkled 
mirthfully—“ Perhaps you will alter your opinion then! ” 
—Here, collecting his scattered manuscripts, he put them 
by—“ I’ve done work for the present,”—he said—“ Shall 
we go for a walk somewhere ? ” 

Yilliers assented, and they left the room together 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

ONE AGAINST MANY. 

The beautiful and socially popular Duchess de la Santoi- 
sic sat her at brilliantly appointed dinner-table, and flashed 
her bright eyes comprehensively round the board,—her 
party was complete. She had secured twenty of the best- 
known men and women of letters in all London, and yet 
she was not quite satisfied with the result attained. One 
dark, splendid face on her right hand had taken the lustra 
out of all the rest,—one quiet, courteous smile on a mouth 
haughty, yet sweet, had somehow or other made the enter¬ 
tain ment of little worth in her own estimation. She was 
very fair to look upon, very witty, very worldly-wise,— 
but for once her beauty seemed to herself defective and 
powerless to charm, while the graceful cloak of social 
hypocrisy she was always accustomed to wear would not 


468 


AliDATU. 


adapt itself to her manner to-night so well as usual. The 
author of “ Nourlialma ,” the successful poet whose ac¬ 
quaintance she had very eagerly sought to make, was not 
at all the kind of man she had expected,—and now, when 
he was beside her as her guest, she did not quite know 
what to do with him. 

She had met plenty of poets, so-called, before,—and had, 
for the most part, found them insignificant looking men 
with an enormous opinion of themselves, and a suave, con¬ 
descending contempt for all others of their craft; but this 
being,—this stately, kingly creature with the noble head, 
and far-gazing, luminous eyes,—this man,whose every gest¬ 
ure was graceful, whose demeanor was more royal than 
that of many a crowned monarch,—whose voice had such 
a singular soft thrill of music in its tone,—he was a per¬ 
sonage for whom she had not been prepared,—and in whose 
presence she felt curiously embarrassed and almost ill at 
ease. And she was not the only one present who experi¬ 
enced these odd sensations. Alwyn’s appearance, when, 
with his friend Villiers, he had first entered the Duchess’s 
drawing-room that evening, and had there been introduced 
to his hostess, had been a sort of revelation to the languid, 
fashionable guests assembled; sudden quick whispers 
were exchanged—surprised glances,—how unlike he was 
to the general type of the nervous, fagged, dyspeptic 
“ literary ” man ! 

And now that every one was seated at dinner, the same 
Impression remained on all,—an impression that was to 
some disagreeable and humiliating, and that yet could 
not be got over,—namely, that this “ poet,” whom, in a 
way, the Duchess and her friends had intended to pat¬ 
ronize, was distinctly superior to them all. Nature, as 
though proud of her handiwork, proclaimed him as such, 
—while he, quite unconscious of the effect he produced, 
wondered why this bevy of human beings, most of whom 
were more or less distinguished in the world of art and 
literature, had so little to say for themselves. Their con¬ 
versation was banal ,—tame,—ordinary; they might have 
been well-behaved, elegantly dressed peasants for aught 
they said of wise, cheerful, or witty. The weather,—the 
parks,—the theatres,—the newest actress, and the newest 
remedies for indigestion,—these sort of subjects were ban¬ 
died about from one to the other with a vaguely tame per¬ 
sistence that was really irritating,—the question of reme* 


ARDATff. 469 

dies for indigestion seemed to hold ground longest, owing 
to the variety of opinions expressed thereon. 

The Duchess grew more and more inwardly vexed, and 
her little foot beat an impatient tattoo under the table, as 
she replied with careless brevity to a few of the common¬ 
place observations addressed to her, and cast an occasional 
annoyed glance at her lord, M. le Due, a thin, military¬ 
looking individual, with a well-waxed and pointed mus¬ 
tache, whose countenance suggested an admirably execu¬ 
ted mask. It was a face that said absolutely nothing,— 
yet beneath its cold impassiveness lurked the satyr-like, 
complex, half-civilized, half-brutish mind of the bom and 
bred Parisian,—the goblin-creature with whom pure 
virtues, whether in man or woman, are no more sacred 
than nuts to a monkey. The suave charm of a polished 
civility sat on M. le Due’s smooth brow, and beamed in 
his urbane smile,—his manners were exquisite, his courtesy 
irreproachable, his whole demeanor that of a very precise 
and elegant master of deportment. Yet, notwithstanding 
his calm and perfectly self-possessed exterior, he was, 
oddly enough, the frequent prey of certain extraordinary 
and ungovernable passions; there were times when he 
became impossible to himself,—and when, to escape from 
his own horrible thoughts, he would plunge headlong into 
an orgie of wild riot and debauchery, such as might have 
made the hair of his respectable English acquaintances 
stand on end, had they known to what an extent he 
carried his excesses. But at these seasons of moral 
attack, he “went abroad for his health,” as he said, 
delicately touching his chest in order to suggest some 
interesting latent weakness there, and in these migratory 
excursions his wife never accompanied him, nor did she 
complain of his absence. When he returned, after two or 
three months, he looked more the “chevalier sans peuret 
sans reproche” than ever; and neither he, nor the fair part¬ 
ner of his joys and sorrows, ever committed such a breach 
of politeness as to inquire into each other’s doings during 
| the time of their separation. So they jogged on together, 

! presenting the most delightful outward show of wedded 
harmony to the world,—and only a few were found to 
hazard the remark, that the “ racy ” novels Madame la 
Ducbesse wrote to wile away her duller hours were 
singularly “ bitter ” in tone, for a woman whose lot in life 
Was so extremely enviable J 


470 


ARDATH. 


On this particular evening, the Duke affected to be 
utterly unconscious of the meaning looks his beautiful 
spouse shot at him every now and then,—looks which 
plainly said—“Why don’t you start some interesting 
subject of conversation, and stop these people from talking 
such every-day twaddle?” He was a clever man in his 
way, and his present mood was malign and mischievous; 
therefore he went on eating daintily, and discussing mild 
platitudes in the most languidly amiable manner imagi¬ 
nable, enjoying to the full the mental confusion and dis-l 
comfort of his guests,—confusion and discomfort which, as j 
he very well knew, was the psychological result of their 
having one in their midst whose life and character were 
totally opposite to, and distinctly separate from, their own. 
As Emerson truly says, “ Let the world beware when a 
Thinker comes into it! ” . . and here was this Thinker,— 
this type of the Godlike in Man,—this uncomfortably 
sincere personage, whose eyes were clear of falsehood, 
whose genius was incontestable, whose fame had taken 
society by assault, and who, therefore, was entitled to 
receive every attention and consideration. 

Everybody had desired to see him, and here he was,— 
the great man, the new “ celebrity”—and now that he 
was actually present, no one knew what to say to him; 
moreover, there was a very general tendency in the 
company to avoid his direct gaze. People fidgeted on 
their chairs and looked aside or downward, whenever 
his glance accidentally fell on them,—and to the analytical 
Voltairean mind of M. leDuc there was something grimly 
humorous in the whole situation. He was a great admirer 
of physical strength and beauty, and Alwyn’s noble face 
and fine figure had won his respect, though of the genius 
of the poet he knew nothing, and cared less. It was 
enough for all the purposes of social usage that the 
author of “ JVourhalma” was considered illustrious,—no 
matter whether he deserved the appellation or not. And 
so the Duke, satirically amused at the obvious embarrass¬ 
ment of the other “notabilities” assembled, did nothing 
whatsoever to relieve or to lighten the conversation, 
which remained so utterly dull and inane that Alwyn, who 
had been compelled, for politeness’ sake, to appear inter¬ 
ested in the account of a bicycle race detailed to him by a 
very masculine looking lady-doctor whose seat at tabl£ 
ytm his own, began to feel » little Weary* t# 


ARDATHo 471 

wonder dismally now long this “feast of reason and flow 
of soul ” was going to last. 

Villiers, too, whose easy, good-natured, and clever talk 
generally gave some sparkle and animation to the dreariest 
social gathering, was to-night unusually taciturn :—he 
was bored by his partner, a middle-aged woman with a 
mania for philology, and, moreover, his thoughts, like 
those of most of the persons present, were centered on 
Alwyn, whom every now and then he regarded with a 
certain wistful wonder and reverence. He had heard the 
whole story of the Field of Ardath; and he knew not how 
much to accept of it as true, or how much to set down to 
his friend’s ardent imagination. He had come to a fairly 
logical explanation of the whole matter,—namely, that as 
the City of Al-Kyris had been proved a dream, sc surely 
the visit of the Angel-maiden Edris must have been a 
dream likewise,—that the trance at the Monastery of 
Dariel, followed by the constant reading of the passages 
from Esdras, and the treatise of Algazzali, had produced 
a vivid impression on Alwyn’s susceptible brain, which 
had resolved itself into the visionary result narrated. 

He found in this the most practical and probable view of 
what must otherwise be deemed by mortal minds incred¬ 
ible ; and, being a frank and honest fellow, he had not 
3crupled to openly tell his friend what he thought. Alwyn 
had received his remarks with the most perfect sweetness 
and equanimity,—but, all the same, had remained un¬ 
changed in his opinion as to the reality of his betrothal 
to his Angel-love in Heaven. And one or two points had 
certainly baffled Villiers, and perplexed him in his would- 
be precise analysis of the circumstances: first, there was 
the remarkable change in Alwyn’s own nature. From an 
embittered, sarcastic, disappointed, violently ambitious 
man, he had become softened, gracious, kindly,—showing 
the greatest tenderness and forethought for others, even 
in small, every-day trifles; while for himself he took no 
care. He wore his fame as lightly as a child might wear 
a flower, just plucked and soon to fade,—his intelligence 
seemed to expand itself into a broad, loving, sympathetic 
comprehension of the wants and afflictions of human-kind; 
and he was writing a new poem, of which Villiers had 
seen some lines that had fairly amazed him by their 
grandeur of conception and clear passion of utterance. 
Thus it was evident there was no morbidness in him,— 


472 


ABDATI1. 


no obscurity,—nothing eccentric,—nothing that removed 
him in any way from his fellows, except that royal person¬ 
ality of his,—that strong, beautiful, well-balanced Spirit 
in him, which exercised such a bewildering spell on all 
who came within its influence. He believed himself loved 
by an Angel! Well,—if there were angels, why not ? 
Villiers argued the proposition thus: 

“Whether we are Christians, Jews, Buddhists, or 
Mahometans, we are supposed to accept angels as forming 
part of the system of our Faith. If we are nothing,—then, 
of course, v/e believe in nothing. But granted we are 
something , then we are bound in honor, if consistent, to 
acknowledge that angels help to guide our destinies. And 
if, as we are assured by Holy Writ, such loftier beings do 
exist, why should they not communicate with, and even 
love, human creatures, provided those human creatures 
are worthy of their tenderness ? Certainly, viewed by all 
the chief religions of the world, there is nothing new or 
outrageous in the idea of an angel descending to the help 
of man.” 

Such thoughts as these were in his mind now, as he 
ever and anon glanced across the glittering table, with its 
profusion of lights and flowers, to where his poet-friend 
sat, slightly leaning back in his chair, with a certain half- 
perplexed, half-disappointed expression on his handsome 
features, though his eyes brightened into a smile as he 
caught Yilliers’s look, and he gave the smallest, scarcely 
perceptible shrug, as who should say, “ Is this your brill¬ 
iant Duchess ?—your witty and cultured society ? ” 

Yilliers flashed back an amused, responsive glance, and 
then conscientiously strove to pay more attention to the 
irrepressible feminine philologist beside him, determin¬ 
ing to take her, as he said to himself, by way of penance 
for his unremembered sins. After a while there came 
one of those extraordinary, sudden rushes of gabble that 
often occur at even the stiffest dinner-party,—a galloping 
race of tongues, in which nothing really distinct is heard, 
but in which each talks to the other as though moved by 
an impulse of sheer desperation. This burst of noise was 
a relief after the strained murmurs of trite commonplaces 
that had hitherto been the order of the hour, and the fair 
Duchess, somewhat easier in her mind, turned anew to 
Alwyn, with greater grace and gentleness of manner than 
She had yet shown. ^ 


' Abdath. 


478 


et I am afraid,” she said smilingly, “ you must find us 
all very stupid after your travels abroad ? In England 
we are dull,—our tristesse cannot be denied. But, really, 
the climate is responsible,—we want more sunshine. I 
suppose in the East, where the sun is so warm and 
bright, the people are always cheerful?” 

“ On the contrary, I have found them rather serious 
and contemplative than otherwise,” returned Alwyn,— 
“ yet their gravity is certainly of a pleasant, and not of a 
forbidding type. I don’t myself think the sun has much 
to do with the disposition of man, after all,—I fancy his 
temperament is chiefly moulded by the life he leads. In 
the East, for instance, men accept their existence as a sort 
of divine command, which they obey cheerfully, yet with 
a consciousness of high responsibility:—on the Continent 
they take it as a bagatelle , lightly won, lightly lost, hence 
their indifferent, almost childish, gayety ;—but in Great 
Britain ”—and he smiled,—“ it looks nowadays as if it 
were viewed very generally as a personal injury and bore, 
—a kind of title bestowed without the necessary money 
to keep it up! And this money people set themselves 
steadily to obtain, with many a weary grunt and groan, 
while they are, for the most part, forgetful of anything 
else life may have to offer.” 

“ But what is life without plenty of money ? ” inquired 
the Duchess carelessly—“ Surely, not worth the trouble 
of living! ” 

Alwyn looked at her steadily, and a swift flush colored 
her smooth cheek. She toyed with the magnificent dia¬ 
mond spray at her breast, and wondered what strange 
spell was in this man’s brilliant gray-black eyes!—did he 
guess that she—even she—had sold herself to the Due de 
la Santoisie for the sake of his money and title as easily 
and unresistingly as though she were a mere purchasable 
animal ? 

« That is an argument I would rather not enter into,” 
he said gently—“It would lead us too far. But I am 
convinced, that whether dire poverty or great riches be 
our portion, life, considered apart from its worldly ap¬ 
pendages, is always worth living, if lived well” 

“ Pray, how can you separate life from its worldly ap¬ 
pendages?”—inquired a satirical-looking gentleman op¬ 
posite—“ Life is the world, and the things of the world; 
when we lose sight of the world, we lose ourselves,—in 


474 


ARDATU. 


slaort, we die,—arm che world is at an end, and wy \ath 
it. That’s plain practical philosophy.” 

“Possibly it may be called philosophy”—returned 
Alwyn—“ It is not Christianity.” 

“ Oh, Christianity! ”—and the gentleman gave a por¬ 
tentous sniff of contempt—“ That is a system of faith 
that is rapidly dying out; fast falling into contempt!— 
In fact, with the scientific and cultured classes, it is 
already an exploded doctrine.” 

“Indeed!”—Alwyn’s glance swept over him with a 
faint, cold scorn—“And what religion do the scientific 
and cultured classes propose to invent as a substitute ? ” 

“ There’s no necessity for any substitute,”—said the 
gentleman rather impatiently . . For those who want to 
believe in something supernatural, there are plenty of 
different ideas afloat, Esoteric Buddhism for example,— 
and what is called Scientific Religion and Natural Relig¬ 
ion,—any, or all, of these are sufficient to gratify the 
imaginative cravings of the majority, till they have been 
educated out of imagination altogether:—but, for ad¬ 
vanced thinkers, religion is really not required at all.” * 

“ Nay, I think we must worship something / ” retorted 
Alwyn, a fine satire in his rich voice, “ if it be only Self ! 
—Self is an excellent deity!—accommodating, and 
always ready to excuse sin,—why should we not build 
temples, raise altars, and institute services to the glory 
and honor of Self? —Perhaps the time is ripe for a public 
proclamation of this creed ?—It will be easily propagated, 
for the beginnings of it are in the heart of every man, and 
need very little fostering! ” 

His thrilling tone, together with the calm, half-ironical 
persuasiveness of his manner, sent a sudden hush down 
the table. Every one turned eagerly toward him,—some 
amused, some wondering, some admiring, while Villiers 
felt his heart beating with uncomfortable quickness,—he 
hated religious discussions, and always avoided them, and 
now here was Alwyn beginning one, and he the centre ol 
a company of persons who were for the most part avowed 
agnostics, to whose opinions his must necessarily be in 

* The world is indebted to Mr. Andrew Lang for the newest 
“ logical ” explanation of the Religious Instinct in Man :—namely, 
that the very idea of God first arose from the terror and amazement 
of an ape at the sound of the thunder ! So choice and soul-moving a 
definition of Deity needs no comment ! 


AEDATH. 


475 


direct and absolute opposition! At the same time, he 
remembered that those who were sure of their faith 
never lost their temper about it,—and as he glanced at 
his friend’s perfectly serene and coldly smiling counte¬ 
nance, he saw there was no danger of his letting slip, even 
for a moment, his admirable power of self-command. 
The Due de la Santoisie, meanwhile, settling his mustache, 
and gracefully waving one hand, on which sparkled a 
large diamond ring, bent forward a little with a courteous, 
deprecatory gesture. 

“I think”—he said, in soft, purring accents,—“that 
my friend, Dr. Mudley ”—here he bowed toward the sat¬ 
urnine looking individual who had entered into conver¬ 
sation with Alwyn—“ takes a very proper, and indeed a 
very lofty, view of the whole question. The moral sense ” 
—and he laid a severely weighty emphasis on these words, 
—“ the moral sense of each man, if properly trained, is 
quite sufficient to guide him through existence, without 
any such weakness as reliance on a merely supposititious 
Deity.” 

The Duke’s French way of speaking English was charm¬ 
ing ; he gave an expressive roll to his r’s, especially when 
he said “ the moral sense,” that of itself almost carried con¬ 
viction. His wife smiled as she heard him, and her smile 
was not altogether pleasant. Perhaps she wondered by 
what criterion of excellence he measured his own “ moral 
sense,” or whether, despite his education and culture, he 
had any “ moral sense ” at all, higher than that of the pig, 
who eats to be eaten! But Alwyn spoke, and she listened 
intently, finding a singular fascination in the soft and 
quiet modulation of his voice, which gave a vaguely de¬ 
licious suggestion of music underlying speech. 

“ To guide people by their moral sense alone he said 
—“you must first prove plainly to them that the moral 
sense exists, together with moral responsibility. You 
will find this difficult,—as the virtue implied is intangible, 
unseeable;—one cannot say of it, lo here!—or lo there!— 
it is as complicated and subtle as any other of the mani¬ 
festations of pure Spirit. Then you must decide on one uni¬ 
versal standard, or reasonable conception of what ‘mo¬ 
rality ’ is. Again, you are met by a crowd of perplexities,— 
as every nation, and every tribe, has a totaly different idea 
of the same thing. In some countries it is ‘ moral ’ to have 
many wives ; in others, to drown female children; in 


476 


ABDATU. 


others, to solemnly roast one’s grandparents lor dinner! 
Supposing, however, that you succeed, with the aid of all 
the philosophers, teachers, and scientists, in drawing up a 
practical Code of Morality—do you not think an enormous 
majority will be found to ask you by whose authority you 
set forth this Code?—and by what right you deem it 
necessary to enforce it? \ r ou may say, ‘By the authority 
of Knowledge and by the right of Morality ’—but since 
you admit to there being no spiritual or divine inspiration 
for your law, you will be confronted by a legion of oppo¬ 
nents who will assure you, and probably with perfect 
justice, that their idea of morality is as good as yours, and 
their knowledge as excellent,—that your Code appears to 
them faulty in many respects, and that, therefore, they 
purpose making another one, more suited to their liking. 
Thus, out of your one famous Moral System would spring 
thousands of others, formed to gratify the various tastes 
of different individuals, precisely in the same manner as 
sects have sprung out of the wholly unnecessary and 
foolish human arguments on Christianity;—only that 
there would lack the one indestructible, pure Selfless Ex¬ 
ample that even the most quarrelsome bigot must inwardly 
respect,—namely, Christ Himself. And ‘ morality ’ would 
remain exactly where it is:—neither better nor worse 
for all the trouble taken concerning it. It needs some¬ 
thing more than the ‘moral’ sense to rightly ennoble 
man,—it needs the spiritual sense;—the fostering of the 
instinctive Immortal Aspiration of the creature , to make 
him comprehend the responsibility of his present life, as 
a preparation for his higher and better destiny. The cult¬ 
ured, the scholarly, the ultra-refined, may live well and 
uprightly by their ‘ moral sense,’—if they so choose, pro¬ 
vided they have some great ideal to measure themselves 
by,—but even these, without faith in God, may sometimes 
slip, and fall into deeper depths of ruin than they dreamed 
of, when self-centred on those heights of virtue where 
they fancied themselves exempt from danger.” 

lie paused,—there was a curious stillness in the room, 
—many eyes were lowered, and M. le Due’s composure 
was evidently not quite so absolute as usual. 

“ Taken at its best ”—he continued—“ the world alone 
is certainly not worth fighting for;—we see the fact ex¬ 
emplified every day in the cases of those who, surrounded 
by all that a fair fortune can bestow upon them, de- 


ARDATH. 


477 


Aberately hurl themselves out of existence by their own 
free will and act,—indeed, suicide is a very general 
accompaniment of Agnosticism. And self-slaughter, 
though it may be called madness, is far more often the 
result of intellectual misery.” 

“ Of course, too much learning breeds brain disease ”— 
remarked Dr. Mudley sententiously—“ but only in weak 
subjects,—and in my opinion the weak are better out of 
the world. We’ve no room for them nowadays.” 

“You say truly, sir,”—replied Alwyn—“we have no 
room for them, and no patience! They show themselves 
feeble, and forthwith the strong oppress them;—they can 
hope for little comfort here, and less help. It is well, 
therefore, that some of these ‘ weak ’ should still believe 
in God, since they can certainly pin no faith on the jus¬ 
tice of their fellow-man ! But I cannot agree with you 
that much learning breeds brain disease. Provided the 
learning be accompanied by a belief in the Supreme Wis¬ 
dom,—provided every step of study be taken upward 
toward that Source of all Knowledge,—one cannot leam too 
much, since hope increases with discernment, and on 
such food the brain grows stronger, healthier, and more 
capable of high effort. But dispense with the Spirit of the 
Whole, and every movement, though it seem forward, is in 
truth backward ;—study involves bewilderment,—science 
becomes a reeling infinitude of atoms, madly whirling to¬ 
gether for no purpose save death, or, at the best, incessant 
Change, in which mortal life is counted as nothing:—and 
Nature frowns at us, a vast Question, to which there is 
no Answer,—an incomprehensible Force, against which 
wretched Man, gifted with all manner of splendid and God¬ 
like capacities, battles forever and forever in vain! This 
is jhe terrible material lesson you would have us learn 
to-day, the lesson that maddens pupil and teacher alike, 
and has not a glimmer of consolation to offer to any living 
soul! What a howling wilderness this world would be 
if given over entirely to Materialism!—Scarce a line of 
division could be drawn between men and the brute 
beasts of the field! I consider,—though possibly I am 
only one among many of widely differing opinion,—that 
if you take the hope of an after-joy and blessedness away 
from the weary, perpetually toiling Million, you destroy 
at one wanton blow their best, purest, and noblest as¬ 
pirations, As for the Christian Religion, I cannot believe 


ATOiATB. 


' 47 $ 

that so grand and holy a Symbol is perishing among us, 
—we have a monarch whose title is ‘ Defender of the 
Faith,’—we live in an age of civilization which is primarily 
the result of that faith,—and if, as this gentleman assures 
me,”—and he made a slight, courteous inclination toward 
his opposite neighbor—“ Christianity is exploded,—then 
certainly the greatness of this hitherto great nation is 
exploding with it! But I do not think that because a 
few skeptics uplift their wailing ‘All is vanity’ from 
their self-created .desert of Agnosticism, therefore the 
majority of men and women are turning renegades from 
the simplest, most humane, most unselfish Creed that 
ever the world has known. It may be so,—but, at pres¬ 
ent, I prefer to trust in the higher spiritual instincts of 
man at his best, rather than accept the testimony of the 
lesser Unbelieving against the greater Many, whose 
strength, comfort, patience, and endurance, if these virtues 
come not from God, come not at all.” 

His forcible, incisive manner of speaking, together with 
liis perfect equanimity and concise clearness of argument, 
had an evident effect on those who listened. Here was no 
rampant fanatic for particular forms of doctrine or pietism, 
—here was a man who stated his opinions calmly, frankly, 
and with an absolute setting-forth of facts which could 
scarcely be denied,—a man, who firmly grounded himself, 
made no attempt to force any one’s belief, but who simply 
took a large view of the whole, and saw, as it were in a 
glance, what the world might become without faith in a 
Divine Cause and Principle of Creation. And once grant 
this Divine Cause and Principle to be actually existent, 
then all other divine and spiritual things become pos^ 
sible, no matter how impossible they seem to dull mortal 
comprehension. 

A brief pause followed his words,—a pause of vague 
embarrassment. The Duchess was the first to break it. 

“ You have very noble ideas, Mr. Alwyn,”— she said 
with a faint, wavering smile—“ But I am afraid your con¬ 
ception of things, both human and divine, is too exalted, 
and poetically imaginative, to be applied to our every-day 
life. We cannot close our ears to the thunders of science, 
—we cannot fail to perceive that we mortals are of as 
small account in the plan of the Universe as grains of 
sand on the seashore. It is very sad that so it should be, 
and yet so it is I And eonGe.rning Christianity, the poor 


ARDATff. 


479 

system has been so belabored of late with hard blows, 
that it is almost a wonder it still breathes. There is no 
end to the books that have been written disproving and 
denouncing it,—moreover, we have had the subject recently 
treated in a novel which excites our sympathies in behalf 
of a clergyman, who, overwhelmed by scholarship, finds 
he can no longer believe in the religion he is required to 
teach, and who Benounces his living in consequence. The 
story is in parts pathetic,—it has had a large circulation, 
—and numbers of people who never doubted their Creed 
before, certainly doubt it now.” 

Alwyn shrugged his shoulders. “ Faith uprooted by a 
novel! ” he said—“ Alas, poor faith! It could never have 
been well established at any time, to be so easy of de¬ 
struction ! No book in the world, whether of fact or 
fiction, could persuade me either to or from the con¬ 
sciousness of what my own individual Spirit instinctively 
knows. Faith cannot be taught or forced,—neither, if 
true, can it be really destroyed,—it is a God-born, God-fos¬ 
tered intuition, immortal as God Himself. The ephemeral 
theories set forth in books should not be able to influence 
it by so much as a hair’s breadth.” 

“ Truth is, however, often conveyed through the me¬ 
dium of fiction,”—observed Dr. Mudley—“ and the novel 
alluded to was calculated to disturb the mind, and arouse 
trouble in the heart of many an ardent believer. It was 
written by a woman.” 

“Nay, then”—said Alwyn quickly, with a darkening 
flash in his eyes,—“if women give up faith, let the world 
prepare for strange disaster ! Good, God-loving women, 
—women who pray,—women who hope,—women who 
inspire men to do the best that is in them,—these are the 
safety and glory of nations! When women forget to 
kneel,—when women cease to teach their children the 
* Our Father,’ by whose grandly simple plea Humanity 
claims Divinity as its origin,—then shall we learn what 
is meant by 4 men’s hearts failing them for fear and for 
looking after those things which are coming on the earth.* 
A woman who denies Christ repudiates Him, who, above 
all others, made her sex as free and honored as every¬ 
where in Christendom it is. He never refused woman’s 
prayer,—He had patience for her weakness,—pardon for 
her sins,—and any book written by woman’s hand that 
does Him the smallest shadow of wrong is to me as gross 


480 


A^PATH. 


an act, as that of one who, loaded with benefits, scruples 
not to murder his benefactor ! ” 

The Duchess de la Santoisie moved uneasily,—there 
was a vibration in Alwyn’s voice that went to her very 
heart. Strange thoughts swept cloud-like across her 
mind,—again she saw in fancy a little fair, dead child 
that she had loved,—her only one, on whom she had 
spent all the tenderness of which her nature was capable. 
It had died at the prettiest age of children,—the age of 
lisping speech and softly tottering feet, when a journey 
from the protecting background of a wall to outstretched 
maternal arms seems fraught with dire peril to the tiny 
adventurer, and is only undertaken with the help of 
much coaxing, sweet laughter, and still sweeter kisses. 
She remembered how, in spite of her “free” opinions, 
she had found it impossible not to teach her little one a 
prayer;—and a sudden mist of tears blurred her sight, as 
she recollected the child’s last words,—words uttered 
plaintively in the death grasp of a cruel fever, “ Suffer 
me . . to come to Thee! ”—A quick sigh escaped her 
lips,—the diamonds on her breast heaved restlessly,— 
lifting her eyes, grown soft with gentle memory, she en¬ 
countered those of Alwyn, and again she asked herself, 
could he read her thoughts ? His steadfast gaze seemed 
to encompass her, and absorb in a grave, compassionate 
earnestness the entire comprehension of her life. Her 
husband’s polite, mellifluous accents roused her from this 
half-reverie. 

“ I confess I am surprised, Mr. Alwyn,”—he was say¬ 
ing—“ that you, a man of such genius and ability, should 
be still in the leading strings of the Church! ” 

“There is no Church”—returned Alwyn quietly,— 
“The world is waiting for one! The Alpha Beta of 
Christianity has been learned and recited more or less 
badly by the children of men for nearly two thousand 
years,—tb' actual grammar and meaning of the whole 
Language has yet to be deciphered. There have been, 
and are, Adiat are called Churches,—one especially, which, 
if it would bravely discard mere vulgar superstition, 
and accept, absorb, and use the discoveries of Science 
instead, might, and possibly will , blossom into the true, 
universal, and pure Christian Fabric. Meanwhile, in the 
shaking to and fro of things,—the troublous sifting of tin 
wheat from the chaff,—wo n-s/ist be content to follow by. 


AB^ATII. 


481 


the Way of the Cross as best we can. Christianity has XI 
fallen into disrepute, probably because of the Self-Re¬ 
nunciation it demands,—for, in this age, the primal object 
of each individual is manifestly to serve Self only. It is 
a wrong road,—a side-lane that leads nowhere,—and we 
shall inevitably have to turn back upon it and recover the 
right path, —if not now, why then hereafter ! ” 

His voice had a tremor of pain within it;—he was 
thinking of the millions of men and women who were 
voluntarily wandering astray into a darkness they did 
not dream of,—and his heart, the great, true heart of the 
Poet, became filled with an indescribable passion of 
yearning. 

“No wonder,” he mused—“no wonder that Christ 
came hither for the sake of Love ! To rescue, to redeem, 
to save, to bless ! . . O Divine sympathy for sorrow ! If 
I—a man—can feel such aching pity for the woes of 
others, how vast, how limitless, how tender, must be the 
pity of God! ” 

And his eyes softened,—he almost forgot his surround¬ 
ings. He was entirely unaware of the various deep and 
wistful emotions he had wakened in the hearts of his 
hearers. There was a great attractiveness in him that he 
was not conscious of,—and while all present certainly 
felt that he, though among them, was not of them, they 
were at the same time curiously moved by an impression 
that notwithstanding his being, as it were, set apart from 
their ways of existence, his sympathetic influence sur¬ 
rounded them as resistlessly as a pure atmosphere in 
which they drew long refreshing breaths of healthier 
life. 

“ I shouxu like,”—suddenly said a bearded individual 
who was seated half-way down the table, and who had 
listened attentively to everything—“ I should like to tell 
you a few things about Esoteric Buddhism!—I am sure 
it is a faith that would suit you admirably! ” 

Alwyn smiled, courteously enough. “ I shall be happy 
to hear your views on the subject, sir,” he answered 
gently—“ But I must tell you that before I left England 
for the East, I had studied that theory, together with 
many others that were offered as substitutes for Chris¬ 
tianity, and I found it totally inadequate to meet the 
highest demands of the spiritual intelligence. I may also 
add, that I have read carefully all the principal works 

; «i - 


482 


AUDATU. 


against Religion,—-from the treatises of the earliest skep¬ 
tics down to Voltaire and others of our own day. More¬ 
over, I had, not so very long ago, rejected the Christian 
Faith; that I now accept and adhere to it, is not the 
result of my merit or attainment,—but simply the out¬ 
come of an undeserved blessing and singularly happy 
fortune.” 

“ Pardon me, Mr. Alwyn ”—said Madame de la Santoisie 
with a sweet smile—“ By all the laws of nature I must 
contradict you there ! Your fame and fortune must 
needs be the reward of merit,—since true happiness never 
comes to the undeserving.” 

Alwyn made no reply,—inasmuch as to repudiate the 
idea of personal merit too warmly is, as such matters are 
judged nowadays, suggestive of more conceit than modesty. 
He skilfully changed the conversation, and it glided off 
by degrees into various other channels,—music, art, 
science, and the political situation of the hour. The men 
and women assembled, as though stimulated and inspired 
by some new interest, now strove to appear at their very 
best—and the friction of intellect with intellect resulted 
in more or less brilliancy of talk, which, for once, was 
totally free from the flippant and mocking spirit which 
usually pervaded the Santoisie social circle. On all thf« 
subjects that came up for discussion Alwyn proved him¬ 
self thoroughly at home—and M. le Due, sitting in a silence 
that was most unwonted with him, bet&me filled with 
amazement to think that this man, so full of fine qualities 
and intellectual abilities, should be actually a Christian J 
—The thing was quite incongruous, or seemed so to the 
ironical wit of the born and bred Parisian,—he tried to con¬ 
sider it absurd,—even laughable,—but his efforts merely re¬ 
sulted in a sense of uneasy peronal shame. This poet was, 
at any rate, a man ,—he might have posed for a Coriolanus 
or Marc Antony;—and there was something supreme 
about him that could not be sneered down. 

The dinner, meanwhile, reached its dessert climax, and 
the Duchess rose, giving the customary departing signal 
to her lady-guests. Alwyn hastened to open the door 
for her, and she passed out, followed by a train of women 
in rich and rustling costumes, all of whom, as they swept 
past the kingly figure that with slightly bent head and 
courteous mien thus paid silent homage to their sex, were 
conscious of very unusual emotions of respect and rev- 


AJRDATB. 


483 


erence. How would it be, some of them thought, if they 
were more frequently brought into contact with such 
royal and gracious manhood ? Would not love then be¬ 
come indeed a hallowed glory, and marriage a true sacra¬ 
ment ! Was it not possible for men to be the gods of this 
world, rather than the devils they so often are ? Such 
were a few of the questions that flitted dimly through the 
minds of the society-fagged fair ones that clustered round 
the Duchess de la Santoisie, and eagerly discussed 
Alwyn’s personal beauty and extraordinary charm of 
manner. 

The gentlemen did not absent themselves long, and 
with their appearance from the dining-room the re¬ 
ception of the evening began. Crowds of people arrived 
and crammed up the stairs, filling every corridor and corner, 
and Alwyn, growing tired of the various introductions 
and shaking of hands to which he was submitted, man¬ 
aged presently to slip away into a conservatory adjoin¬ 
ing the great drawing-room,—a cool, softly lighted place 
full of flowering azaleas and rare palms. Here he sat for 
a while among the red and white blossoms, listening to 
the incessant hum of voices, and wondering what en¬ 
joyment human beings could find in thus herding to¬ 
gether en masse , and chattering all at once as though life 
depended on chatter, when the rustling of a woman’s dress 
disturbed his brief solitude. He rose directly, as he saw 
his fair hostess approaching him. 

“Ah, you have fled away from us, Mr. Alwyn!” she 
said with a slight smile—*• I do not wonder at it. These 
receptions are the bane of one’s social existence.” 

“ Then why do you give them ? ”—asked Alwyn, half 
laughingly. 

“ Why ? Oh, because it is the fashion, I suppose! ” she 
answered languidly, leaning against a marble column that 
supported the towering frondage of a tropical fern, and 
toying with her fan,—“ And I, like others, am a slave to 
fashion. I have escaped for one moment, but I must go 
back directly. Mr. Alwyn . . ” She hesitated,-—then 
came straight up to him, and laid her hand upon his arm 
—“ I want to thank you! ” 

“ To thank me ? ” he repeated in surprised accents. 

“ Yes ! ”—she said steadily—“ To thank you for what 
you have said to-night. We live in a dreary age, when 
no one has much faith, or hope, and still less charity,—, 


484 


ABDAT1I. 


death is set before us as the final end of all,—and lne as 
lived by most people is not only not worth living, but 
utterly contemptible! Your clearly expressed opinions 
have made me think it is possible to do better,”—her lips 
quivered a little, and her breath came and went quickly, 
—“and I shall begin to try and find out how this ‘better’ 
can be consummated! Pray do not think me foolish-” 

“ I think you foolish! ” and with gravest courtesy 
Alwyn raised her hand, and touched it gently with his 
lips, then as gently released it. His action was full of 
grace,—it implied reverence, trust, honor,—and the 
Duchess looked at him with soft, wet eyes in which a 
smile still lingered. 

“ If there were more men like you,”—she said suddenly 
—“what a difference it would make to us women! We 
should be proud to share the burdens of life with those 
on whose absolute integrity and strength we could rely, 
—but, in these days, we do not rely, so much as we de¬ 
spise,—we cannot love, so much as we condemn ! You 
are a Poet,—and for you the world takes ideal colors,—- 
for you perchance the very heavens have opened;—but 
remember that the millions, who, in the present era, are 
ground down under the heels of the grimmest necessity, 
have no such glimpses of God as are vouchsafed to you ) 
They are truly in the darkness and shadow of death,— 
they hear no angel music,—they sit in dungeons, howled 
at by preachers and teachers who make no actual attempt 
to lead them into light and liberty,—while we, the so- 
called ‘ upper ’ classes, are imprisoned as closely as they, 
and crushed by intolerable weights of learning, such as 
many of us are not fitted to bear. Those who aspire 
heavenwards are hurled to earth,—those who of their own 
choice cling to earth, become so fastened to it, that even 
if they wished, they could not rise. Believe me, you will 
be sorely disheartened in your efforts toward the highest 
good,—you will find most people callous, careless, igno¬ 
rant, and forever scoffing at what they do not, and will not, 
understand,—you had better leave us to our dust and 
ashes,”—and a little mirthless laugh escaped her lips,— 
“ for to pluck us from thence now will almost need a second 
visitation of Christ, in whom, if He came, we should prob¬ 
ably not believe! Moreover, you must not forget that we 
have read Darwin,—and we are so charmed with our mon¬ 
key ancestors, that we are doing our best to imitate them 


ABLATE . 


485 


in every possible way,—in the hope that, with time and 
patience, we may resolve ourselves back into the original / 
species! ” 

With which bitter sarcasm, uttered half mockingly, 
half in good earnest, she left him and returned to her 
guests. Not very long afterward, he having sought and 
found Yilliers, and suggested to him that it was time to 
make a move homeward, approached her in company with 
his friend, and bade her farewell. 

“ I don’t think we shall see you often in society, Mr. 
Alwyn”—she said, rather wistfully, as she gave him her 
hand,—“ You are too much of Titan among pigmies ! ” 

He flushed and waved aside he remark with a few 
playful words; unlik his Former Self, if there was any¬ 
thing in the world he shrank from, it was flatter)', or 
what seemed like flattery. On^e outside the house he 
drew a long breath of relief, md glanced gratefully up at 
the sky, bright with the glist ing multitude of stars. 
Thank God, there were worlds in that glorious expanse 
of ether peopled with loftier types of being than what is 
called Humanity ! Yilliers looked at him questioningly : 

“ Tired of your own celebrity, Alwyn ? ” he asked, tak¬ 
ing him by the arm,—“ Are the pleasures of Fame already 
exhausted ? ” 

Alwyn smiled,—he thought of the fame of Sah-lftma, 
Laureate bard of Al-Kyris ! 

“ Nay, if the dream that I told you of had any meaning 
at all ”—he replied—“ then I enjoyed and exhausted those 
pleasures long ago! Perhaps that is the reason why my 
‘ celebrity ’ seems such a poor and tame circumstance 
now. But I was not thinking of myself,—I was wonder¬ 
ing whether, after all, the slight power I have attained can 
be of much use to others. I am only one against many.” 

“ Nevertheless, there is an old maxim which says that 
one hero makes a thousand ”—said Yilliers quietly—“ And 
it is an undeniable fact that the vastest number ever 
counted, begins at the very beginning with One ! ” 

Alwyn met his smiling, earnest eyes with a quick, re¬ 
sponsive light in his own, and the two friends walked the 
r*$st of the way home in silence. 


486 


A&DATH. 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

HELIOBAS. 

Some few days after the Duchess’s dinner-party, Alwyn 
was strolling one morning through the Park, enjoying to 
the full the keen, fresh odors of the Spring,—odors that 
even in London cannot altogether lose their sweetness, so 
long as hyacinths and violets consent to bloom, and al¬ 
mond-trees to flower, beneath the too often unpropitious 
murkiness of city skies. It had been raining, but now 
the clouds had roiled off, and the sun shone as brightly 
as it ever can shine on the English capital, sending 
sparkles of gold among the still wet foliage, and reviving 
the little crocuses, that had lately tumbled down in heaps 
on the grass, like a frightened fairy army put to rout by 
the onslaught of the recent shower. A blackbird, whose 
cheery note suggested melodious memories drawn from 
the heart of the quiet country, was whistling a lively im¬ 
provisation on the bough of a chestnut-tree, whereof the 
brown shining buds were just bursting into leaf,—and 
Alwyn, whose every sense was pleasantly attuned to the 
small, as well as great, harmonies of nature, paused for a 
moment to listen to the luscious piping of the feathered 
minstrel, that in its own wild woodland way had as ex¬ 
cellent an idea of musical variation as any Mozart or 
Chopin. Leaning against one of the park benches, with 
his back turned to the main thoroughfare, he did not ob¬ 
serve the approach of a man’s tall, stately figure, that, 
with something of his own light, easy, swinging step, 
had followed him rapidly along for some little distance, 
and that now halted abruptly within a pace or two of 
where he stood,—a man whose fine face and singular 
distinction of bearing had caused many a passer-by to 
stare at him in vague admiration, and to wonder who 
such a regal-looking personage might possibly be. Alwyn, 
however, absorbed in thought, saw no one, and was about 
-to resume his onward walk, when suddenly, as though 
moved by some instinctive impulse, he turned sharply 
around, and in so doing confronted the stranger, who 
straightway advanced, lifting his hat and smiling. One 


ARDATII. 


487 


Rmazed glance,—and then with an ejaculation of wonder, 
recognition, and delight, Alwyn sprang forward and 
grasped his extended hand. 

“ Heliobas /” he exclaimed. “ Is it possible you are in 
London!— You , of all men in the world! ” 

“ Even so! ”—replied Heliobas gayly—“ And why not ? 
Am I incongruous, and out of keeping with the march of 
modern civilization ? ” 

Alwyn looked at him half-bewildered, half-incredulous, 
—he could hardly believe his own eyes. It seemed such 
an altogether amazing thing to meet this devout and 
grave Chaldean philosopher, this mystic monk of the 
Caucasus, here in the very centre, as it were, of the 
world’s business, traffic, and pleasure; one might as well 
have expected to find a haloed saint in the whirl of a car¬ 
nival masquerade ! Incongruous ? Out of keeping ?— 
Yes, certainly he was,—for though clad in the plain, con¬ 
ventional garb to which the men of the present day are 
doomed by the fiat of commerce and custom, the splendid 
dignity and picturesqueness of his fine personal appear¬ 
ance was by no means abated, and it was just this that 
marked him out, and made of him as wonderful a figure 
in London as though some god or evangelist should sud¬ 
denly pass through a wilderness of chattering apes and 
screaming vultures. 

“But how and when did you come?”—asked Alwyn 
presently, recovering from his first glad shock of surprise 
—“You see how genuine is my astonishment,—why, I 
thought you were a perpetually vowed recluse,-—that you 
never went into the world at all, . . ..” 

“ Neither I do ”—rejoined Heliobas—“ save when strong 
necessity demands. But our Order is not so ‘inclosed’ 
that, if Duty calls, we cannot advance to its beckoning, 
and there are certain times when both I and those of my 
fraternity mingle with men in common, undistinguished 
from the ordinary inhabitants of cities either by dress, 
customs, or manners,—as you see! ”—and he laughingly 
touched his overcoat, the dark rough cloth of which was 
relieved by a broad collar and revers of rich sealskin,— 
“ Would you not take me for a highly respectable brewer, 
par exemple , conscious that his prowess in the making of 
beer has entitled him, not only to an immediate seat in 
Parliament, but also to a Dukedom in prospective?” 

Alwyn smiled at the droll inapplicability of this com- 


488 


ABDATH. 


parison,—and Heliobas cheerfully continued—“I am on 
the wing just now,—bound for Mexico. I had business 
in London, and arrived here two days since,—two days 
more will see me again en -coyage. I am glad to have met 
you thus by chance, for I did not know your address, and 
though I might have obtained that through your pub¬ 
lishers, I hesitated about it, not being quite certain as to 
whether a letter or visit from me might be welcome.” 

“ Surely,”—began Alwyn, and then he paused, a flush 
rising to his brow as he remembered how obstinately he 
had doubted and suspected this man’s good faith and in¬ 
tention toward him, and how he had even received his 
farewell benediction at Dariel with more resentment than 
gratitude. 

“ Everywhere I hear great things of you, Mr. Alwyn,”— 
went on Heliobas gently, taking no notice of his embar¬ 
rassment—“ Your fame is now indeed unquestionable! 
With all my heart I congratulate you, and wish you long 
life and health to enjoy the triumph of your genius ! ” 

Alwyn smiled, and turning, fixed his clear, soft eyes 
full on the speaker. 

“I thank you!” he said simply,— a But, . . . you, who 
have such a quick instinctive comprehension of the minds 
and characters of men,—judge for yourself whether I at¬ 
tach any value to the poor renown I have won,—renown 
that I once would have given my very life to possess! ” 

As he spoke, he stopped,—they were walking down a 
quiet side-path under the wavering shadow of newly 
bourgeoning beeches, and a bright shaft of sunshine struck 
through the delicate foliage straight on his serene and 
handsome countenance. Heliobas gave him a swift, keen, 
observant glance,—in a moment he noticed what a mar¬ 
vellous change had been wrought in the man who, but a 
few months before, had come to him, a wreck of wasted 
life,—a wreck that was not only ready, but willing, to 
drift into downward currents and whirlpools of desperate, 
godless, blank, and hopeless misery. And now, how 
completely he was transformed!—Health colored his 
cheeks and sparkled in his eyes; health, both of body 
and mind, gave that quick brilliancy to his smile, and 
that easy, yet powerful poise to his whole figure,—while 
the supreme consciousness of the Immortal Spirit within 
him surrounded him with the same indescribable fascina¬ 
tion and magnetic attractiveness that distinguished Heli- 


ABD ITU. 


489 


obas himself, even as it distinguishes all who have in 
good earnest discovered and accepted the only true ex¬ 
planation of their individual mystery of being. One 
steady, flashing look,—and then Heliobas silently held 
out his hand. As silently Alwyn clasped it,—and the 
two men understood each other. All constraint was at an 
£3nd,—and when they resumed their slow sauntering 
, Under the glistening green branches, they were mutually 
aware that they now held an almost equal rank in the 
hierarchy of spiritual knowledge, strength, and sympathy. 

1 “ Evidently your adventure to the Ruins of Babylon 

was not altogether without results!” said Heliobas 
softly—“ Your appearance indicates happiness,—is your 
life at last complete ? ” 

“ Complete ?—No! ”—and Alwyn sighed somew'hat im¬ 
patiently—“ It cannot be complete, so long as its best and 
purest half is elsewhere ! My fame is, as you can guess, a 
mere ephemera,—a small vanishing point, in comparison 
with the higher ambition I have now in view. Listen,— 
you know nothing of what happened to me on the Field 
of Ardath,—I should have written to you perhaps, but it 
is better to speak—I will tell you all as briefly as I can.” 

And talking in an undertone, with his arm linked 
through that of his companion, he related the whole 
strange story of the visitation of Edris, the Dream of Al- 
Kyris, his awakening on the Prophet’s Field at sunrise, 
and his final renunciation of Self at the Cross of Christ. 
Heliobas listened to him in perfect silence, liis eyes alone 
expressing with what eager interest and attention he fol¬ 
lowed every incident of the narrative. 

“ And now,” said Alwyn in conclusion,—“ I always try 
to remember for my own comfort that I left my dead Self 
in the burning ruin of that dream-built city of the past,— 
or seemed to leave it, . . and yet I feel sometimes as if its 
shadow-presence clung to me still! I look in the mirror 
and see strange, faint reflections of the actual personal 
attributes of the slain Sah-llima,—occasionally these are 
so strong and distinctly marked that I turn away in anger 
from my own image! Why, I loved that Phantasm of a 
Poet in my dream as I must for ages have loved myself 
to my own utter undoing!—I admired his work with such 
extravagant fondness, that, thinking of it, 1 blush for 
shame at my own thus manifest conceit!—In truth there 
is only one "thing in that pictured character of his, I can 


490 


ARDATU. 


for the present judge myself free from,—namely, tlie care¬ 
less rejection of true love for false,—the wanton misprisal 
of a faithful heart, such as Niphr&ta’s, whose fair child- 
face even now often flits before my remorseful memory,— 
and the evil, sensual passion for a woman whose wicked¬ 
ness was as evident as her beauty was paramount! I 
could never understand or explain this wilful, headstrong 
weakness in my Shadow-Self—it was the one circumstance 
in my vision that seemed to have little to do with the 
positive Me in its application,—but now I thoroughly 
grasp the meaning of the lesson conveyed, which is that, 
no man ever really knows himself, or fathoms the depths of 
his own possible inconsistencies. And as matters stand 
with me at the present time, I am hemmed in on all sides 
by difficulties,—for since the modern success of that very 
anciently composed poem, ‘ Nourlitilma 9 ”—and he smiled 
—“ my friends and acquaintances are doing their best to 
make me think as much of myself as if I were,—well! all 
that I am not. Do what I will, I believe am still an egoist, 
—nay, I am sure of it,—for even as regards my heavenly 
saint, Edris, I am selfish ! ” 

“ How so ? ” asked Heliobas, with a grave side-glance 
of admiration at the thoughtful face and meditative 
earnest eyes of this poet, this once bitter and blasphemous 
skeptic, grown up now to a majesty of faith that not all 
the scorn of men or devils could ever shake again. 

“ I want her! ”—he replied, and there was a thrill of 
pathetic yearning in his voice—“I long for her every 
moment of the day and night! It seems, too, as if every¬ 
thing combined to encourage this craving in me,—this 
fond, mad desire to draw her down from her own bright 
sphere of joy,—down to my arms, my heart, my life! 
See! ”—and he stopped by a bed of white hyacinths, 
nodding softly in the faint breeze—“ Even those flowers 
remind me of her! When I look up at the blue sky I think 
of the radiance of her eyes,—they were the heaven’s own 
color,—when I see light clouds floating together half gray, 
half tinted by the sun, they seem to me to resemble the 
soft and noiseless garb she wore,—the birds sing, only to 
recall to me the lute-like sweetness of her voice,—and at 
night, when I behold the millions upon millions of stars 
that are worlds, peopled as they must be with thousands 
of wonderful living creatures, perhaps as spiritually com¬ 
posed as she, I sometimes find it hard, that out of all the 


ABDATB. 


m 

exhaustless types of being that love, serve, and praise 
God in Heaven, this one fair Spirit,—only this one angel- 
maiden should not be spared to help and comfort me! 
Yes!—I am selfish to the heart’s core, my friend! ”—and 
his eyes darkened with a vague wistfulness and trouble, 
—“ Moreover, I have weakly striven to excuse my selfish¬ 
ness to my own conscience thus :—I have thought that if 
she were vouchsafed to me for the remainder of my days, 
I might then indeed do lasting good, and leave lasting 
consolation to the world,—such work might be performed 
as would stir the most callous souls to life and energy 
and aspiration,—with her sweet Presence near me, visibly 
close and constant, there is no task so difficult that I 
would not essay and conquer in, for her sake, her service, 
her greater glory! But alone / ”—and he gave a slight, 
hopeless gesture—“Hay,—Christ knows I will do the ut¬ 
most best I can, but the solitary ways of life are hard! ” 

Heliobas regarded him fixedly. 

“ You seem to be alone ”—he said presently, after a pause, 
—“but truly you are not so. You think you are set apart 
to do your work in solitude,—nevertheless, she whom you 
love may be near you even while you speak! Still I 
understand what you mean,—you long to see her again,— 
to realize her tangible form and presence,—well!—this 
cannot be until you pass from this earth and adopt her 
nature, . . unless,—unless she descends hither, and 
adopts yours!” 

The last words were uttered slowly and impressively, 
and Alwyn’s countenance brightened with a sudden 
irresistible rapture. 

“ That would be impossible! ” he said, but his voice 
trembled, and there was more interrogativeness than 
assertion in his tone. 

“ Impossible in most cases,—yes ”—agreed Heliobas— 
j “ but in your specially chosen and privileged estate, I 
! cannot positively say that such a thing might not be.” 
j For one moment a strange, eager brilliancy shone in 
| Alwyn’s eyes,—the next, he set his lips hard, and made a 
1 firm gesture of denial. 

“ Do not tempt me, good Heliobas,” he said, with a 
faint smile—“ Or, rather, do not let me tempt myself! I 
bear in constant mind what she, my JCdris, told me when 
she left me,—that we should not meet again till after 
death, unless the longing of my lqye compelled. How, If 


492 


ABDATR. 


it be true, as T have often thought, that I could compel,— 
by what right dare I use such power, if power I have 
upon her ? She loves me,—I love her,—and by the force 
of love, such love as ours, . . who knows !—I might per¬ 
chance persuade her to adopt a while this mean, uneasy 
vesture of mere mortal life,—and the very innate percep¬ 
tion that I might do so, is the sharpest trial I have to en¬ 
dure. Because if I would thoroughly conquer myself, I 
must resist this feeling;—nay, I will resist it,—for let it. 
cost me what it may, I have sworn that the selfishness of 
my awn personal desire shall never cross or cloud the 
radiance of her perfect happiness! ” 

“ But suppose ”—suggested Heliobas quietly, “ suppose 
she were to find an even more complete happiness in 
making you happy ? ” 

Alwyn shook his head. “ My friend do not let us talk 
of it!”—he answered—“No joy can be more complete 
than the joy of Heaven,—and that in its full blessedness 
is hers.” 

“ That in its full blessedness is not hers,”—declared 
Heliobas with emphasis—“ And, moreover, it can never be 
hers, while you are still an exile and a wanderer! Friend 
Poet, do you think that even Heaven is wholly happy to 
one who loves, and whose Beloved is absent ? ” 

A tremor shook Alwyn’s nerves,—his eyes glowed as 
though the inward fire of his soul had lightened them, 
but his face grew very pale. 

“No more of this, for God’s sake ! ” he said passionately. 
“I must not dream of it,—I dare not! I become the 
slave of my own imagined rapture,—the coward who falls 
conquered and trembling before his own desire of delight! 
Rather let me strive to be glad that she, my angel-love, 
is so far removed from my unworthiness,—let her, if she be 
near me now, read my thoughts, and see in them how 
dear, how sacred is her fair and glorious memory,—how 
I would rather endure an eternity of anguish, than make 
her sad for one brief hour of mortal-counted time! ” 

He was greatly moved,—his voice trembled with the 
fervor of its own music, and Heliobas looked at him with 
a grave and very tender smile. 

\ “ Enough! he said gently—“ I will speak no further 
'on this subject, which I see affects you deeply. Never¬ 
theless, I would have you remember how, "when the 
Master whom we serve" passed through His Agony at. 


A1WATII. 


493 


Getlisemane, and with all the knowledge of His own 
power and glory strong upon Him, still in His vast self- 
abnegation said, ‘Not My will, but Thine be done! ’ that 
then ‘ there appeared an Angel unto Him from heaven, 
strengthening Him! ’ Think of this,—for every incident 
in that Divine-Human Life is a hint for ours,—and often 
it chances that when we reject happiness for the sake of 
goodness, happiness is suddenly bestowed upon us. God’s 
miracles are endless,—God’s blessings exhaustless, . . and 
the marvels of this wondrous Universe "me as nothing, 
compared to the working of His Sovereign W ill for good 
on the lives of those who serve Him faithfully.” 

Alwyn flashed upon him a quick, half-questioning 
glance, but was silent,—and they walked on together for 
some minutes without exchanging a word. A few people 
passed and repassed them,—some little children were 
playing hide-and-seek behind the trunks of the largest 
trees,—the air was fresh and invigorating, and the inces¬ 
sant roar of busy traffic outside the Park palings offered 
a perpetual noisy reminder of the great world that surged 
around them,—the world of petty aims and transitory 
pleasures, with which they, filled full of the knowledge 
of higher and eternal things, had so little in common save 
sympathy,—sympathy for the wilful wrong-doing of man, 
and pity for his self-imposed blindness. Presently Heliobas 
spoke again in his customary light and cheerful tone : 

“Are you writing anything new just now?” he asked. 
“ Or are you resting from literary labor ? ” 

“Well, rest and work are with me very nearly one and 
the same ”—replied Alwyn,—“ I think the most absolutely 
tiring and exhausting thing in the world would be to have 
nothing to do. Then I can imagine life becoming indeed 
a weighty burden ! Yes, I am engaged on a new poem, 
. . it gives me intense pleasure to write it—but whether 
it will give any one equal pleasure to read it l uite an¬ 
other question.” 

« Does ‘ Zabastes’ still loom on your horizon ? ” inquired 
his companion mirthfully—“ Or are you still inclined—as 
in the Past—to treat him, whether he comes singly or in 
numbers, as the Poet’s court-jester, and paid fool ? ” 

Alwyn laughed lightly. “ Perhaps ! ” he answered, 
with a sparkle of amusement in his eyes,—“ But, really, 
so far as the wind of criticism goes, I don’t think any 
author nowadays particularly cares whether it blows fair 


494 


ARDATH. 


weather or foul. You see, we all know how it is done,— 
we can name the clubs and cliques from whence it ema¬ 
nates, and we are fully aware that if one leading man of 
a ‘ set ’ gives the starting signal of praise or blame, the 
rest follow like sheep, without either thought or personal 
discrimination. Moreover, some of us have met and talked 
with certain of these magazine and newspaper oracles, 
and have tested for ourselves the limited extent of their 
knowledge and the shallowness of their wit. I assure you 
it often happens that a great author is tried, judged, 
and condemned by a little casual press-man who, in his 
very criticism, proves himself ignorant of grammar. Of 
course, if the public choose to accept such a verdict, why, 
then, all the worse for the public,—but luckily the major¬ 
ity of men are beginning to learn the ins and outs of the 
modern critic’s business,—they see his or her methods (it 
is a notable fact that women do a great deal of criticism 
now, they being willing to scribble oracular common¬ 
places at a cheaper rate of pay than men), so that if a 
book is condemned, people ar' dubious, and straight way 
read it for themselves to see wha J is in it that excites 
aversion,—if it is praised, they are still dubious, and gen¬ 
erally decide that the critical eulogist must have some 
personal interest in its sale. It is difficult for an author 
to win his public,—but when won, the critics may applaud 
or deride as suits their humor, it makes no appreciable 
difference to his popularity. Now I consider my own 
present fame was won by ° chance,—a misconception that, 
as I know, had its ancient foundation in truth, but that, 
as far as everybody else is concerned, remains a miscon¬ 
ception,—so that I estimate my success at its right value, 
or rather, let me say, at its proper worthlessness.” 

And in a few words he related how the leaders of Eng¬ 
lish journalism had judged him dead, and had praised 
his work chiefly because it was posthumous. “ I believe ” 
—he added good-humoredly—“ that if this mistake 
had not arisen, I should scarcely have been heard of, 
since I advocate no particular ‘cult’ and belong to no 
Mutual Admiration Alliance, offensive or defensive. But 
my supposed untimely decease served me better than the 
Browning Society serves Browning! ” 

Again he laughed,—Ileliobas had listened with a keen 
and sarcastic enjoyment of the whole story. 

“Undoubtedly your ‘Zabastes’ was no phantom 1”— 


Ardatu. 


495 


he observed emphatically—“His was evidently a very 
real existence, and he must have divided himself from 
one into several, to sit in judgment again upon you in this 
present day ! History repeats itself,—and unhappily all 
the injustice, hypocrisy, and inconsistency of man is re¬ 
peated too,—and out of the multitudes that inhabit the 
earth, how few will succeed in fulfilling their highest 
destinies! This is the one bitter drop in the cup of our 
knowledge,—we can, if we choose, save ourselves,—but 
we can seldom, if ever, save others! ” 

Alwyn stopped short, his eyes darkening with a swift 
intensity of feeling. 

“ Why not ? ”—he asked earnestly—“ Must we look on, 
and see men rushing toward certain misery, without mak¬ 
ing an effort to turn them back ?—to warn them of the 
darkness whither they are bound ?—to rescue them before 
it is too late ? ” 

“ My friend, we can make the effort, certainly,—and 
we are bound to make it, because it is our duty,—but in 
ninety-nine cases out of a hundred we shall fail of our 
persuasion. What can I, or you, or any one, do against 
the iron force of Free-Will? God Himself will not con¬ 
strain it,—how then shall we ? In the Books of Esdras, 
which have already been of such use to you, you will find 
the following significant words: ‘ The Most High hath 
made this world for many , but the world to come for few. 
As when thou askest the earth , it shall say unto thee that 
it giveth much mold wherein earthen vessels are made , and 
but little dust that gold cometh of even so is the course of 
this present world. There be many created but few shall 
be saved —God elects to be served by choice —and not by 
compulsion ; it is His Law that Man shall work out his 
own immortal destiny,—and nothing can alter this over¬ 
whelming Fact. The sublime Example of Christ was 
given us as a means to assist us in forming our own con¬ 
clusions,—but there is no coercion in it,—only a Divine 
Love. You, for instance, were, and are, still perfectly free 
to reject the whole of your experience on the Field of Ar- 
datli as a delusion,—nothing would be easier, and, from the 
world’s point of view, nothing more natural. Faith and 
Doubt are equally voluntary acts,—the one is the instinct 
of the immortal Soul, the other the tendency of the per¬ 
ishable Body,—and the Will decides which of the two 
shall conquer in the end. I know that you are firm in 


496 


AliDATH. 


your high and trhe conviction,—I know also what thoughts 
are at work in your brain,—you are bending all your en¬ 
ergies on the task of trying to instil into the minds of 
your fellow-men some comprehension of the enlighten¬ 
ment and hope you yourself possess. Ah, you must pre¬ 
pare for disappointment!—for though the times are tend¬ 
ing toward strange upheavals and terrors, when the trum¬ 
pet-voice of an inspired Poet may do enormous good,— 
still the name of the wilfully ignorant is Legion,—the 
age is one of the grossest Mammon worship, and coarsest 
Atheism,—and the noblest teachings of the noblest teacher, 
were he even another Shakespeare, must of necessity be 
but a casting of pearls before swine. Still ”—and his 
rare sweet smile brightened the serene dignity of his 
features—‘‘fling out the pearls freely all the same,—the 
swine may grunt at, but cannot rend you,—and a poet’s 
genius should be like the sunlight, that falls on rich and 
poor, good and bad, with glorious impartiality 1 If you 
can comfort one sorrow, check one sin, or rescue one soul 
from the widening quicksand of the Atheist world, you 
have sufficient reason to be devoutly thankful.” 

By this time their walk had led them imperceptibly to 
one of the gates of egress from the Park, and Heliobas, 
pointing to a huge square building opposite, said: 

“ There is the hotel at which I am staying—one of the 
Americanized monster fabrics in which tired travellers 
find much splendid show, and little rest! Will you lunch 
with me?—I am quite alone.’ 

Alwyn gladly assented,—he was most unwilling to part 
at once from this man, to whom in a measure he felt he 
owed his present happy and tranquil condition of body 
and mind; besides, he was curious to fiiid out more about 
him—to obtain from him, if possible, an entire explana¬ 
tion of the actual tenets and chief characteristics of the sys¬ 
tem of religious worship he himself practiced and followed. 
Heliobas seemed to guess his thoughts, for suddenly turn¬ 
ing upon him with a quick glance, he observed: 

“You want to ‘ pluck out the heart of my mystery,’ as 
Hamlet says, do you not, my friend?”—and he smiled— 
“ Well, so you shall, if you can discover aught in me that 
is not already in yourself! I assure you there is nothing 
preternatural about me,—my peculiar * eccentricity ’ con¬ 
sists in steadily adapting myself to the scientific spiritual , 
as well as scientific material , laws of the Universe. ThCr 


AllDATH. 


497 


two sets of laws united make harmony,—hence I find my 
life harmonious and satisfactory,-—this is n5y 4 abnormal’ 
condition of mind,—and you are now fully as ‘ abnormal 9 
as I am. Come, we will discuss our mutual strange non¬ 
conformity to the wild world’s custom or caprice over a 
glass of good wine,—observe, please, that I am neither a 
4 total abstainer ’ nor a 4 vegetarian,’ and that I have a 
curious fashion of being temperate , and of using all the 
gifts of beneficent Nature equally, and without prejudice ! ’ 

While he spoke, they had crossed the road, and they 
now entered the vestibule of the hotel, where, declining 
the hall-porter’s offer of the 44 lift,” Heliobas ascended the 
stairs leisurely to the second floor, and ushered his com¬ 
panion into a comfortable private sitting-room. 

44 Fancy men consenting to be drawn up to their apart¬ 
ments like babes in a basket! ” he said laughingly, allud¬ 
ing to the 44 lift ” process— 44 Upon my word, when I think 
of the strong people of a past age and compare them with 
the enervated race of to-day, I feel not only pity, but 
shame, for the visible degeneration of mankind. Frail 
nerves, weak hearts, uncertain limbs,—these are common 
characteristics of the young, nowadays, instead of being 
as formerly the natural failings of the old. Wear and 
tear and worry of modern existence ?—Oh yes, I know! 
—but why the wear tear and worry at all ? What is 
it for ? Simply for the over-getting of money. One must 
live ? . certainly,—but one is not bound to live in foolish 
luxury for the sake of out-flaunting one’s neighbors. 
Better to live simply and preserve health, than gain a 
fortune and be a moping dyspeptic for life. But unless 
one toils and moils like a beast of burden, one cannot 
even live simply, some will say! I don’t believe that as¬ 
sertion. The peasants of France live simply, and save,— 
the peasants of England live wretchedly, and waste! 
Yoildj la difference ! As with nations, so with individuals, 
—it is all a question of Will. 4 Where there’s a will 
there’s a way,’ is a dreadfully trite copybook maxim, but 
it’s amazingly true all the same. Now let us to the ac¬ 
ceptation of these good things,”—this, as a pallid, boyish- 
looking waiter just then entered the room with the lunch¬ 
eon, and in his bustling to and fro manifested unusual 
eagerness to make himself agreeable— 44 1 have made ex¬ 
cellent friends with this young Ganymede,—he has sworn 
never to palm off raisin-wine upon me for Chambertin! ” 
32 , - « ' - 


498 


ABDATB. 


The waiter blushed and chuckled as though he were con¬ 
scious of having gained special new dignity and impor¬ 
tance,—and having laid the table, and set the chairs, he 
departed with a flourishing bow worthy of a prince’s 
maitre-cT hotel. 

“Your name must seem a curious one to these fellows ” 
—observed Alwyn, when lie had gone,—“ Unusual and 
4 even mysterious ? ” 

“ Why, yes ! ”—returned Heliobas with a laugh—“ It 
would be judged so, I suppose, if I ever gave it,—but I 
don’t. It was only in England, and by an Englishman, 
that I was once, to my utter amazement, addressed as 
‘He-ly-oh-bas '—and I was quite alarmed at the sound of 
it! One would think that most people in these educa¬ 
tional days knew the Greek word hellos, —and one would 
also imagine it as easy to say Heliobas as heliograph. 
But now to avoid mistakes, whenever I touch British ter¬ 
ritory and come into contact with British tongues, I 
give my Christian name only, Cassimir—the result of 
which arrangement is, that lam known in this hotel as 
Mr. Kasmer! Oh, I don’t mind in the least—why should 
I ?—neither the English nor the Americans ever pronounce 
foreign names properly. Why I met a newly established 
young publisher yesterday, who assured me that most 
of his authors, the female ones especially, are so ignorant 
of foreign literature that he doubts whether any of them 
know whether Cervantes was a writer or an ointment! ” 

Alwyn laughed. “ I dare say the young publisher 
may be perfectly right,”—he said—“ But all the same he 
has no business to publish the literary emanations of such 
ignorance.” 

“ Perhaps not!—but what is he to do, if nothing else 
is offered to him ? He has to keep his occupation going 
somehow,—from bad he must select the best. He cannot 
create a great genius—he has to wait till Nature, in the 
( course of events, evolves one from the elements. And in 
j the present general dearth of high ability the publishers 
are really more sinned against than sinning. They spend 
large sums, and incur large risks, in launching new vent¬ 
ures on the fickle sea of popular favor, and often their 
trouble is taken all in vain. It is really the stupid ego¬ 
tism of authors that is the stumbling-block in the way 
of true literature,—each little scribbler that produces a 
^hilling sensational thinks his or her own work a marvel 


ABDATH. 


m 

of genius, and nothing can shake them from their obstinate 
conviction. If every man or woman, before putting pen 
to paper, would be sure they had something new, sug¬ 
gestive, symbolical, or beautiful to say, how greatly Art 
might gain by their labors! Authors who take up arms 
against publishers en masse , and in every transaction ex¬ 
pect to be cheated, are doing themselves irreparable 
injury—they betray the cloven hoof,—namely a greed for 
money—and when once that passion- dominates them, 
down goes their reputation and they with it. It is the 
old story over again—‘ ye cannot serve God and Mammon,* 
—and all Art is a portion of God,—a descending of the 
Divine into Humanity.” 

Alwyn sat for a minute silent and thoughtful. “ A 
descending of the Divine into Humanity!” he repeated 
slowly—“ It seems to me that ‘ miracle ’ is forever being 
enacted,—and ye£ ... we doubt! ” 

“ We do not doubt—” said Heliobas—“ We know,—we 
have touched Reality! But see yonder! ”—and he pointed 
through the window to the crowded thoroughfare below 
—“There are the flying phantoms of life,—the men and 
women who are God-oblivious, and who are therefore no 
more actually living than the shadows of Al-Kyris ! 
They shall pass as a breath and be no more,—and this 
roaring, trafficking metropolis, this immediate centre of 
civilization, shall ere long disappear off the surface of the 
earth, and leave not a stone to mark the spot where once 
it otood! So have thousands of such cities fallen since 
this planet was flung into space,—and even so shall thou¬ 
sands still fall. Learning, civilization, science, progress, 
—these things exist merely for the training and education 
of a chosen few —and out of many earth centuries and gen¬ 
erations of men, shall be won only a very small company 
of angels! Be glad that you have fathomed the mystery 
of your own life’s purpose,—for you are now as much a 
Positive Identity among vanishing spectres, as you were 
when, on the Field of Ardath, you witnessed and took 
part in the Mirage of your Past.” 


600 


EDATH. 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 

A MISSING RECORD. 

He spoke the last words with deep feeling and earnest¬ 
ness, and Alwyn, meeting his clear, grave, brilliant eyes, 
was more than ever impressed by the singular dignity 
and overpowering magnetism of his presence. Remem¬ 
bering how insufficently he had realized this man’s true 
worth, when he had first sought him out in his monastic 
retreat, he was struck by a sudden sense of remorse, and 
leaning across the table, gently touched his hand. 

“ How greatly I wronged you once, Heliobas! ” he said 
penitently, with a tremor of appeal in his voice—“ Forgive 
me, will you?—though I shall never forgive myself! ” 
Heliobas smiled, and cordially pressed the extended 
hand in his own. 

“ Nay, there is nothing to forgive, my friend,” he 
answered cheerfully—“ and nothing to regret. Your 
doubts of me were very natural,—indeed, viewed by the 
world’s standard of opinion, much more natural than your 
present faith, for faith is always a super- natural instinct. 
Would you be practically sensible according to modern 
social theories ?—then learn to suspect everybody and 
everything, even your best friend’s good intentions ! ” 

He laughed, and the luncheon being concluded, he rose 
from the table, and taking an easy-dhair nearer the 
window, motioned Alwyn to do the same. 

“I want to talk to you”—he continued, “We may 
not meet again for years,—you are entering on a difficult 
career, and a few hints from one who knows and thoroughly 
understands your position may possibly be of use to you. 
In the first place, then, let me ask you, have you told any 
one, save me, the story of your Ardath adventure ? ” 

“ One friend only,—my old school comrade, Frank Vil- 
liers ”—replied Alwyn. 

“ And what does he say about it ? ” 

“ Oh, he thinks it was a dream from beginning to end,” 
—and Alwyn smiled a little,—“ He believes that I set out 
on my journey with my brain already heated to an ima¬ 
ginative excess, and that the whole thing, even my Angel’s 
presence, was a pure delusion of my own overwrought 


abdath. 


501 


fancy,—a curious and wonderful delusion, but always a 
delusion.” 

“ He is a very excellent fellow to judge you so leniently ” 
—observed Heliobas composedly, “Most people would 
call you mad.” 

“ Mad! ” exclaimed Alwyn hotly—“ Why, I am as sane 
as any man in London! ” 

“Saner, I should say,”—replied Heliobas, smiling,— 
65 Compared with some of the eminently 4 practical ’ specu¬ 
lating maniacs that howl and struggle among the fluct¬ 
uating currents of the Stock Exchange, for instance, you 
are indeed a marvel of sound and wholesome mental capa¬ 
bility! But let us view the matter coolly. You must 
not expect such an exceptional experience as yours to be 
believed in by ordinary persons. Because the majority of 
people, being utterly wnspiritual and worldly, have no such 
experiences, and they therefore deem them impossible;— 
they are the gold-fish born in a bowl, who have no con¬ 
sciousness of the existence of an ocean. Moreover, you 
have no proofs of the truth of your narrative, beyond the 
change in your own life and disposition,—and that can 
be easily referred to various other causes. You spoke 
of having gathered one of the miracle-flowers on the 
Prophet’s field,—may I see it ? ” 

Silently Alwyn drew from his breast-pocket the velvet 
case in which he always kept the cherished blossom, and 
taking it tenderly out, placed it in his companion’s hand. 

“ An immortelle ”—said Heliobas softly, while the flower, 
uncurling its silvery petals in the warmth of his palm, 
opened star-like and white as snow. “An immortelle, 
rare and possibly unique!—that is all the world would 
say of it! It cannot be matched,—it will not fade,—true! 
but you will get no one to believe that! Frown not, good 
Poet!—I want you to consider me for the moment a 
practical worldling, bent on driving you from the spiritual 
position yon have taken up,—and you will see how neces¬ 
sary it is for you to keep the secret of your own enlight¬ 
enment to yourself, or at least only hint at it through the 
parables of poesy.” . . 

He gave back the Ardath blossom to its owner with 
reverent care,—and when Alwyn had as reverently put 
it by, he resumed : 

“ Your friend Yilliers has offered you a perfectly logi¬ 
cal and common-sense solution of the mystery of Ardath, 


502 


Anr>Am. 


—one which, if yoU chose to accept it, Would drive you 
back into skepticism as easily as a strong wind blows a 
straw. Only see how simple the intricate problem is un¬ 
ravelled by this means ! You, a man of ardent and im¬ 
aginative temperament, made more or less unhappy by 
the doctrines of materialism, come to me, Heliobas, a 
Chaldean student of the Higher Philosophies, an indi¬ 
vidual whose supposed mysterious power and inexplicably 
studious way of life entitle him to be considered by the 
world at large an impostor! —Now don’t look so indig¬ 
nant ! ”—and he laughed,—“ I am merely discussing the 
question from the point of view that would be sure to be 
adopted by 4 wise 5 modern society! Thus—I, Heliobas, 
the impostor, take advantage of your state of mind to 
throw you into a trance, in which, by occult means, you 
see the vision of an Angel, who bids you meet her at a 
plaoe called Ardath,—and you, also, in your hypnotized 
condition, write a poem which yon entitle ‘ JSTourh&lma! 
Then I,—always playing my own little underhand game! 
—read you portions of ‘Esdras,’ and prove to you that 
‘ Ardath ’ exists, while I delicately suggest, if I do not 
absolutely command, your going thither. You go,—but 
I, still by magnetic power, retain my influence over you. 
You visit Elzear, a hermit, whom we will, for the sake 
of the present argument, call my accomplice,—he 
reads between the lines of the letter you deliver to him 
from me, and he understands its secret import. He con¬ 
tinues, no matter how, your delusion. You broke your 
fast with him,—and surely it was easy for him to place 
some potent drug in the wine he gave you, which made you 
dream the rest;—nay, viewed from this standpoint, it is 
open to question whether you ever went to the Field of 
Ardath at all, but merely dreamed you did! You see 
how admirably I can, with little trouble, disprove the 
whole story, and make myself out to be the veriest char¬ 
latan and trickster that ever duped his credulous fellow- 
man ! flow do you like my practical dissection of your 
new-found joys ? ” 

Alwyn was gazing at him with puzzled and anxious eyes. 

w Ido not like it at all”—be murmured, in a pained 
tone—“It is an insidious semhance of truth;—but I know 
it is not the Truth itself! ” 

“Why, how obstinate you are!” said Heliobas, good- 
humofedly, With a quick, flashing glance at him. “ You 


ATtDATB, 


503 

insist on seeing things in a directly reverse way to that 
in which the world sees them ! How can you be so fool¬ 
ish ! To the world your Ardath adventure is the sem¬ 
blance of truth,—and only man’s opinion thereon is worth 
trusting as the Truth itself! ” 

Over the wistful, brooding thoughtfulness of Alwyn’s 
countenance swept a sudden light of magnificent resolu¬ 
tion. 

“ Heliobas, do not jest with me! ” he cried passionately 
—“ I know, better perhaps than most men, how divine 
things can be argued away by the jargon of tongues, till 
heart and brain grow weary,—I know, God help me! 
—how the noblest ideals of the soul can be swept down 
and dispersed into blank ruin, by the specious arguments 
of cold-blooded casuists,—but I also know, by a supreme 
inner knowledge beyond all human proving, that GOD 
EXISTS, and with His Being exist likewise all splendors, 
great and small, spiritual and material,—splendors vaster 
than our intelligence can reach,—ideals loftier than 
imagination can depict! I want no proof of this save 
those that burn in my own individual consciousness, 
—I do not need a miserable taper of human reason to 
help me to discern the Sun! I, of my own choice , prayer , 
ana hope , voluntarily believe in God, in Christ, in angels, 
in all things beautiful and pure and grand!—let the world 
and its ephemeral opinions wither, I will not be shaken 
down from the first step of the ladder whereon one climbs 
to Heaven! ” 

His features were radiant with fervor and feeling,—his 
eyes brilliant with the kindling inward light of noblest 
aspiration,—and Heliobas, who had watched him intently, 
now bent toward him with a grave gesture of the gentlest 
homage. 

“ How strong xS xie whom an Angel’s love makes glori¬ 
ous ! ” he said—“ We are' partners in the same destiny, 
my friend,—and I have but spoken to you as the world 
might speak, to prepare you for opposition. The specious 
arguments of men confront us at every turn, in every 
book, in every society,—and it is not always that we are 
ready to meet them. As a rule, silence on all matters of 
personal faith is best,—let your life bear witness for you; 
—it shall thunder loud oracles when your mortal limbs 
ure dumb.” 

He paused a moment—then went on: “You have de- 


504 


ABBA Til. 


sired to know the secret of the active and often miraculous 
power of the special form of religion I and my brethren 
follow; well, it is all contained in Christ, and Christ only. 
His is the only true Spiritualism in the world—there was 
never any before He came. We obey Christ in the simple 
rules he preached,—Christ according to His own enunci¬ 
ated wish and will. Moreover, we,—that is, our Fraternity, 
-—received our commission from Christ Himself in person.’’ 

Alwyn started,—his eyes dilated with amazement and 
awe. 

“ From Christ Himself in person ? ”—he echoed incred¬ 
ulously. 

“ Even so”—returned Heliobas calmly. “ What do you 
suppose our Divine Master was about during the years 
between His appearance among the Rabbis of the Temple 
and the commencement of His public preaching? Do 
you, can you, imagine with the rest of the purblind world, 
that he would have left His marvellous Gospel in the 
charge of a few fishermen and common folk only” 

“ I never thought,—I never inquired-” began Alwyn 

hurriedly. 

“ No ! ”—and Heliobas smiled rather sadly, “ Few men 
do think or inquire very far on sacred subjects! Listen, 
—for what 1 have to say to you will but strengthen you 
in your faith,—and you will need more than all the 
strength of the Four Evangelists to bear you stiffly up 
against the suicidal Negation of this present disastrous 
epoch. Ages ago,—ay, more than six or seven thousand 
years ago, there were certain communities of men in the 
East,—scholars, sages, poets, astronomers, and scientists, 
who, destring to give themselves up entirely to study and 
research, withdrew from the world, and formed themselves 
into Fraternities, dividing whatever goods they had in 
common, and living together under one roof as the brother¬ 
hoods of the Catholic Church do to this day. The primal 
object of these men’s investigations was a search after the 
Divine Cause of Creation; and as it was undertaken with 
prayer, penance, humility, and reverence, much enlighten¬ 
ment was vouchsafed to them, and secrets of science, both 
spiritual and material, were discovered by them,—secrets 
which the wisest of modern sages know nothing of as 
yet. Out of these Fraternities came many of the prophets 
find preachers of the Old Testament,—Esdras for one,— 
Isaiah foy another. They were the chroniclers of many 


ARDATH. 


505 


now forgotten events,—they kept the history of the times, 
as far as it was possible,—and in their ancient records 
your city of Al-Kyris is mentioned as a great and populous 
place, which was suddenly destroyed by the bursting out 
of a volcano beneath its foundations—Yes!”—this as 
Alwyn uttered an eager exclamation,—“ Your vision was 
a perfectly faithful reflection of the manner in which it 
perished. I must tell you, however, that nothing concern¬ 
ing its kings or great men has been preserved,—only a 
few allusions to one Hyspiros, a writer of tragedies, whose 
genius seems to have corresponded to that of our Shak- 
speare of to-day. The name of Sah-liXma is nowhere 
extant.” 

A burning wave of color flushed Alwyn’s face, but he 
was silent. Heliobas went on gently : 

“At a very early period of their formation, these Fra¬ 
ternities I tell you of were in possession of most of the 
material scientific facts of the present day,—such things 
as the electric wire and battery, the phonograph, the tele¬ 
phone, and other 4 new ’ discoveries, being perfectly fa¬ 
miliar to them. The spiritual manifestations of Nature 
were more intricate and difficult to penetrate,—and though 
they knew that material effects could only be produced by 
spiritual causes, they worked in the dark, as it were, only 
groping toward the light. However, the wisdom and 
purity of the lives they led was not without its effect,— 
emperors and kings sought their advice, and gave them 
great stores of wealth, which they divided, according to 
rule, into equal portions, and used for the benefit of those 
in need, willing the remainder to their successors; so that, 
at the present time, the few brotherhoods that are left 
hold immense treasures accumulated through many cen¬ 
turies,—treasures which are theirs to share with one an¬ 
other in prosecution of discoveries and the carrying on of 
good works in secret. Ages before the coming of Christ, 
one Aselzion, a man of austere and strict life, belonging 
to a Fraternity stationed in Syria, was engaged in work¬ 
ing out a calculation of the average quantity of heat and 
light provided per minute by the sun’s rays, when, glanc¬ 
ing upward at the sky, the hour being clear noonday, he 
beheld a Cross of crimson hue suspended in the sky, 
whereon hung the cloudy semblance of a human figure. 
•Believing himself to be the victim of some optical delusion, 
he hastened to fetch some of his brethren, who at a glance 


506 


: ABDATH . 


perceived the self-same marvel,—which presently was 
viewed with reverent wonder by the whole assembled 
community. For one entire hour the Symbol stayed— 
then vanished suddenly, a noise like thunder accompany¬ 
ing its departure. Within a few months of its appear¬ 
ance, messages came from all the other Fraternities 
stationed in Egypt, in Spain, in Greece, in Etruria, stating 
that they also had seen this singular sight, and suggesting 
that from henceforth the Cross should be adopted by the 
united Brotherhoods as a holy sign of some Deity unre¬ 
vealed,—a proposition that was at once agreed to. This 
happened some five thousand years before Christ,—and 
hence the Sign of the Cross became known in all, or nearly 
all, the ancient rites of worship, the multitude consider¬ 
ing that because it was the emblem of the Philosophical 
Fraternities, it must have some sacred meaning. So it 
was used in the service of Serapis and the adoration of 
the Nile-god,—it has been found carved on Egyptian disks 
and obelisks, and it was included among the numerous 
symbols of Saturn.” 

He paused. Alwyn was listening with eager, almost 
breathless, attention. 

“ After this ”—went on Ileliobas—“ came a long period 
of prefigurements; types and suggestions, that, running 
through all the various religions that sprang up swiftly 
and as swiftly decayed, hinted vaguely at the birth of a 
child,—offspring of a pure Virgin—a miraculously gen¬ 
erated God-in-Man—an absolutely Sinless One, who should 
be sent to remind Humanity of its intended final high des¬ 
tiny, and who should, by precept and example, draw the 
Earth nearer to Heaven. I would here ask you to note 
what most people seem to forget,—namely, that since 
Christ came, all these shadowy types and prefigurements 
have ceased; a notable fact, even to skeptical minds. 
The world waited dimly for something, it knew not what, 
—the various Fraternities of the Cross waited also, feel¬ 
ing conscious that some great era of hope and happiness 
was about to dawn for all men. When the Star in the 
East arose announcing the Redeemer’s birth, there were 
some forty or fifty of these Fraternities existing, three in 
the ancient province of Chaldea, from whence a company 
of the wisest seers and sages were sent to acknowledge 
by their immediate homage the Divinity born in Bethle¬ 
hem. These were the ‘wise men out of the East' men- 


APxDATU. 


507 


fcioned in the Gospei. We knew—I say we , because I am 
descended directly from one of these men, and have al¬ 
ways belonged to their Brotherhood—we knew it was 
DIVINITY that had come amongst us,—and in our parch¬ 
ment chronicles there is a long account of how the deserts 
of Arabia rang with music that holy night—what wealth 
of flowers sprang up in places that had hither to lain waste 
and dry—how the sky blazed with rings of roseate radi¬ 
ance,—how fair and wondrous shapes were seen flitting 
across the heavens,—the road of communication be¬ 
tween men and Angels being opened at a touch by the 
Saviour’s advent.” 

Again he paused,—and after a little silence resumed : 

“ Then we added the Star to our existing Symbol, the 
Cross, and became the Brotherhood of the Cross and Star. 
As such, after the Kedeemer’s birth, we put all other 
matters from us, and set ourselves to chronicle His life 
and actions, to pray and wait, unknowing what might 
be the course of His work or will. One Day He came to 
us,—ah! happy those whom He found watching, and 
whose privilege it was to receive their Divine Guest! ” 

His voice had a passionate thrill within it, as of tears, 
—and Alwyn’s heart beat fast,—what a wonderful new 
chapter was here revealed of the old, old story of the Only 
Perfect Life on earth! 

“One of the Fraternities,” went on Heliobas, “had its 
habitation in the wilderness where, some years later, the 
Master wandered fasting forty days and forty nights. To 
that solitary abode of prayerful men lie came, when He 
was about twenty-three earthly years of age ; the record 
of His visit has been reverently penned and preserved, and 
from it we know how fair and strong He was,—how stately 
and like a King—how gracious and noble in bearing— 
how far exceeding in beauty all the son’s of men! His 
speech was music that thrilled to the heart,—the won¬ 
drous glory of His eyes gave life to those who knelt and 
worshipped Him—His touch was pardon—His smile was 
peace! From His own lips a store of wisdom was set 
down,—and prophecies concerning the fate of His own 
teaching, which then He uttered, are only now, at this 
very day, being fulfilled. Therefore we know the time has 
come-” he broke off, and sighed deeply. 

“The time has come for what?” demanded Alwyn 
eagerly. 


608 


ARDATH. 


“ For certain secrets to be made known to the world 
which till now have been kept sacred,” returned Heliobas, 
—“You must understand that the chief vow of the Fra¬ 
ternity of the Cross and Star is secrecy ,—a promise never 
to divulge the mysteries of God and Nature to those who 
are unfitted to receive such high instruction. It is Christ’s 
own saying—‘ A faithless and perverse generation asketh 
for a sign, and no sign shall be given.’ You surely are 
aware how r , even in the simplest discoveries of material 1 
science, the world’s attitude is at first one of jeering in¬ 
credulity,—how much more so, then, in things which per¬ 
tain solely to the spiritual side of existence! But God 
will not be mocked,—and it behooves us to think long, 
and pray much, before we unveil even one of the lesser 
mysteries to the eyes of the vulgar. Christ knew the 
immutable condition of Free-Will,—He knew that faith, 
humility, and obedience are the hardest of all hard virtues 
to the self-sufficient arrogance of man; and we learned 
from Him that His Gospel, simple though it is, would bo 
denied, disputed, quarrelled over, shamefully distorted, 
and almost lost sight of in a multitude of ‘ free ’ opinions, 
—that His life-giving Truth would be obscured and ren¬ 
dered incomprehensible by the toilful obstinacy of human 
arguments concerning it. Christ has no part whatever 
in the distinctly human atrocities that have been per¬ 
petrated under cover of His Name,—such as the Inquisition, 
the Wars of the Crusades, the slaughter of martyrs, and 
the degrading bitterness of sects; in all these things 
Christ’s teaching is entirely set aside and lost. He knew 
how the proud of this world would misread His words— 
that is why He came to men who for thousands of years 
in succession had steadily practised the qualities He most 
desired,—namely, faith , humility , and obedience ,—and 
finding them ready to carry out His will, He left with 
them the mystic secrets of His doctrine, which He for¬ 
bade them to give to the multitude till men’s quarrels 
and disputations had called His very existence into doubt. 
Then,—through pure channels and by slow degrees—we 
were to proclaim to the world His last message.” 

Alwyn’s eyes rested on the speaker in reverent yet 
anxious inquiry. 

“Surely”—he said—“you wilL begin to proclaim it 
now?” 

“Yes, we shall begin,” answered Heliobas, his brow 


ARDATH. 


509 


darkening as with a cloud of troubled tnought—“ But we 
are in a certain difficulty,—for we may not speak in public 
ourselves, nor write for publication,—our ancient vow 
binds us to this, and may not be broken. Moreover, the 
Master gave us a strange command,—namely, that when 
the hour came for the gradual declaration of the Secret of 
His Doctrine, we should intrust it, in the first place, to 
the hands of one who should be young,— in the world, yet 
not of it,—simple as a child, yet wise with the wisdom 
of faith,—of little or no estimation among men,—and who 
should have the distinctive quality of loving nothing in 
earth or Heaven more dearly than His Name and Honor. 
For this unique being we have searched, and are search¬ 
ing still,—we can find many who are young and both 
wise and innocent, but, alas! one who loves the unseen 
Christ actually more than all things,—this is indeed a 
perplexity ! I have fancied of late that I have discovered 
in my own circle,—that is, among those who have been 
drawn to study God and Nature according to my views, 
—one who makes swift and steady progress in the higher 
sciences, and who, so far as I have been able to trace, really 
loves our Master with singular adoration above all joys on 
earth and hopes of Heaven; but I cannot be sure—and 
there are many tests and trials to be gone through before 
we dare bid this little human lamp of love shine forth 
'.>pon the raging storm.” 

He was silent a moment,—then went on in a low tone, 
as though speaking to himself: 

“ When the mechanism of this Universe is explained in 
such wise that no discovery of Science can ever disprove ., 
but must rather support it , . . when the Essence of the 
Immortal Soul in Man is described in clear and concise, 
language,—and when the marvellous action of Spirit on 
Matter is shown to be actually existent and never idle ,—then, 
if the world still doubts and denies God, it will only have 
itself to blame!—But to you ”—and he resumed his ordi 
nary tone—“ all things, through your Angel’s love, an 
made more or less plain,—and I have told you the his¬ 
tory of our Fraternity merely that you may under¬ 
stand how it is we know so much that the outer world is 
ignorant of. There are very few of us left nowadays,— 
only a dozen Brotherhoods scattered far apart on different 
portions of the earth,—but, such as we are, we are all 
united , and have never, through these eighteen hundred 


510 


ARDATIT. 


years, had a shade of difference in opinion concerning the 
Divinity of Christ. Through Him we have learned true 
Spiritualism, and all the miraculous power which is the 
result of it; and as there is a great deal oi false spirit¬ 
ualism rampant just now, I may as well give you a few 
hints whereby you may distinguish it at once,— Imprimis : 
if a so-called Spiritualist tells you that he can summon 
spirits who will remove tables and chairs, write letters, 
play the piano, and rap on the walls, he is a charlatan . 
For Spirits can touch nothing corporeal unless they take 
corporeal shape for the moment, as in the case of your 
angelic Edris. But in this condition, they are only seen 
by the one person whom they visit ,—never by several per¬ 
sons at once—remember that! Nor can they keep their 
corporeal state long,—except, by their express wish and 
will, they should seek to enter absolutely into the life of 
humanity, which, I must tell you, has been done, but so 
seldom, that in all the history of Christian Spirituality 
there are only about four examples. Here are six tests 
for all the 4 spiritualists ’ you may chance to meet: 

44 First. Do they serve themselves more than others ? 
If so, they are entirely lacking in spiritual attributes. 

44 Secondly. Will they take money for their professed 
knowledge? If so, they condemn themselves as paid 
tricksters. 

44 Thirdly. Are they men and w r omen of commonplace 
and thoroughly material life ? Then, it is plain they can¬ 
not influence others to strive for a higher existence. 

44 Fourthly. Do they love notoriety ? If they do, the 
gates of the unseen world are shut upon them. 

“Fifthly. Do they disagree among themselves, and 
speak against one another ? If so, they contradict by 
their own behavior all the laws of spiritual force and har¬ 
mony. 

44 Sixthly and lastly.—Do they reject Christ! If they 
dd, they know nothing whatever about Spiritualism, there 
being none without Him. Again, when you observe pro¬ 
fessing psychist's living in any eccentric way, so as to 
cause their trifling every-day actions to be remarked and 
commented upon, you may be sure thb real power is not 
in them,—as, for instance, people who become vegetarians 
because they imagine that by so doing they will see 
spirits-—-people who adopt a singular mode of dress in 
order to appear different from weir feilov-enatares-^ 


ARDATH. 


511 


people who are lachrymose, dissatisfied, or in any way 
morbid. Never forget that true Spiritualism engenders 
health of body and mind , serenity and brightness of as¬ 
pect, cheerfulness and perfect contentment,—and that its 
influence on those who are brought within its radius is 
distinctly marked and beneficial. The chief characteristic 
of a true, that is, Christian, spiritualist is, that he or she 
cannot be shaken from faith, or thrown into despair by 
any earthly misfortune whatsoever. And while on this 
subject, I will show you where the existing forms of 
Christianity depart from the teachings of Christ: first, 
in lack of self-abnegation, —secondly, in lack of unity, — 
thirdly, in failing to prove to the multitude that Death is 
is not Destruction, but simply Change. Nothing really 
dies; and the priests should make use of Science to 
illustrate this fact to the people. Each of these virtues 
has its Miracle-Effect: Unity is strength; Self-abnega¬ 
tion attracts the Divine Influences, and Death, viewed as 
a glorious transformation, which it is, inspires the soul 
with a sense of larger life. Sects are ww-Christian,—there 
should be only one vast, united Church for all the 
Christian world—a Church, whose pure doctrines should 
include all the hints received from Nature and the 
scientific working of the Universe,—the marvels of the 
stars and the planetary systems,—the v/onders of plants 
and minerals,—the magic of light and color and music; 
and the true miracles of Spirit and Matter should be in¬ 
quired into reverently, prayerfully, and always with th« 
deepest humility; while the first act of worship per¬ 
formed every holy Morn and Eve should be Gratitude I 
Gratitude—gratitude! Ay, even for a sorrow we should 
be thankful,—it may conceal a blessing we wot not of! 
For sight, for sense, for touch, for the natural beauty of 
this present world,—for the smile on a face we love—for 
the dignity and responsibility of our lives, and the im¬ 
mortality with which we are endowed,—Oh my friend! 
would that every breath we drew could in some way exd 
press to the All-Loving Creator our adoring recognition 
of His countless benefits! ” 

Carried away by his inward fervor, his eyes flashed 
with extraordinary brilliancy, — his countenance was 
grand, inspired, and beautiful, and Alwyn gazed at him 
in wondering, fascinated silence. Here was a man who 
had indeed made the best of his manhood!—what a life 


515J 


ARDATR. 


was his ! how satisfying and serene! Master of himself, 
he was, as it were, master of the world,—all Nature 
ministered to him, and the pageant of passing history was 
as a mere brilliant picture painted for his instruction,— 
a picture on which he, looking, learned all that it was 
needful for him to know. And concerning this mystic 
Brotherhood of the Cross and Star, what treasures of 
wisdom they must have secreted in their chronicles 
through so many thousands of years! What a privilege it 
would be to, explore such world-forgotten tracks of time! 
Yielding to a sudden impulse, Alwyn spoke his thought 
aloud: 

“ Heliobas,” he said, “ tell me, could not I, too, become 
a member of your Fraternity ? ” 

Heliobas smiled kindly. “ You could, assuredly ”—he 
replied—“ if you chose to submit to fifteen years’ severe 
trial and study. But I think a different sphere of duty 
is designed for you. Wait and see! The rules of our 
Order forbid the disclosure of knowledge attained, save 
through the medium of others not connected with us ; and 
we may not write out our discoveries for open publication. 
Such a vow would be the death-blow to your poetical 
labors,—and the command your Angel gave you points 
distinctly to a life lived in the world of men,—not out of it.” 

“ But you yourself are in the world of men at this 
moment”—argued Alwyn—“And you are free; did you 
not tell me you were bound for Mexico ? ” 

“ Does going to Mexico constitute liberty ? ” laughed 
Heliobas. “ I assure you I am closely constrained by my 
vows wherever I am,—as closely as though I were shut 
in our turret among the heights of Caucasus ! I am going 
to Mexico solely to receive some manuscripts from one of 
our brethren, who is dying there. He has lived as a 
recluse, like Elzear of Melyana, and to him have been con¬ 
fided certain important chronicles, which must be taken 
into trustworthy hands for preservation. Such is the 
object of my journey. But now, tell me, have you 
thoroughly understood all I have said to you ? ” 

“ Perfectly ! ” rejoined Alwyn. “ My way seems very 
clear before me,—a happy way enough, too, if it were not 
quite so lonely ! ” And he sighed a little. 

Heliobas rose and laid one hand kindly on his shoulder. 

# “ Courage! ”... he said softly. “ Bear with the lone* 
liness a while, it may not last long! ” 


A1WATH. 


51S 


A slight thrill ran through Alwyn’s nerves,—he felt 
though he were on the giddy verge of some great and 
unexpected joy,—his heart beat quickly and his eyes grew 
dim. Mastering the strange emotion with an effort, he 
was reluctantly beginningto think it was time to take his 
leave, when Heliobas, who had been watching him intently, 
spoke in a cheerful, friendly tone : 

“Now that we have had our serious talk out, Mr. 
Alwyn, suppose you come with me and hear the Ange- 
Demon of music at St. James’s Hall ? Will you ? He can 
bestow upon you a perfect benediction of sweet sound,—a 
benediction not to be despised in this workaday world 
of clamor,—and out of all the exquisite symbols of Heaven 
offered to us on earth, Music, I think, is the grandest and 
best.” 

“ I will go with you wherever you please,” replied Alwyn, 
glad of any excuse that gave him more of the attractive 
Chaldean’s company,—“ But what Ange-Demon are you 
speaking of ? ” 

“ Sarasate,—or 4 Sarah Sayty,’ as some of the dear 
Britishers call him—” laughed Heliobas, putting on his 
overcoat as he spoke; “ the 4 Spanish fiddler,’ as the crab¬ 
bed musical critics define him when they want to be con¬ 
temptuous, which they do pretty often. These, together 
with the literary 4 oracles,’ have their special cliques,— 
their little chalked-out circles, in which they, like tranced 
geese, stand cackling, unable to move beyond the marked 
narrow limit. As there are fools to be found who have the 
ignorance, as well as the effrontery, to declare that the 
obfuscated, ill-expressed, and ephemeral productions of 
Browning are equal, if not superior, to the clear, majestic, 
matchless, and immortal utterances of Shakespeare,—ye 
gods ! the force of asinine braying can no further go than 

this!.even so there are similar fools who say that 

the cold, correct, student-like playing of Joachim is su¬ 
perior to that of Sarasate. But come and judge for your¬ 
self,—if you have never heard Him, it will be a sort of 
musical revelation to you,—he is not so much a violinist, 
as a human violin played by some invisible sprite of song. 
London listens to him, but doesn’t know quite what to make 
of him,—he is a riddle that only poets can read. If we 
start now, we shall be just in time,—I have two stalls. 
Shall we go?” 

Alwyn needed no second invitation,—he was passion- 
33 ' — 



ARDATIL 


m 

ately fond of music,-^his interest was aroused, his curiosity 
excited,—moreover, whatever the fine taste of Ileliobas 
pronounced as good must, he felt sure, be super-excellent. 
In a few minutes they had left the hotel together, and 
were walking briskly toward Piccadilly, their singularly 
handsome faces and stately figures causing many a passer¬ 
by to glance after them admiringly, and murmur sotto 
voce , “ Splendid-looking fellows 1 . . not English! ” For 
though Englishmen are second to none in mere muscular 
strength and symmetry of form, it is a fact worth noting, 
that if any one possessing poetic distinction of look, or 
picturesque and animated grace of bearing, be seen sud¬ 
denly among the more or less monotonously uniform crowd 
in the streets of London, he or she is pretty sure to be set 
down, rightly or wrongly, as “ not English,” Is not this 
rather a pity ?—for England ! 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

THE WIZARD OF THE BOW. 

When they entered the concert-hall, the orchestra had 
already begun the programme of the day with Mendels¬ 
sohn’s “ Italian ” Symphony. The house was crowded to 
excess; numbers of people were standing, apparently 
willing to endure a whole afternoon’s fatigue, rather than 
miss hearing the Orpheus of Andalusia,—the “Endy- 
mion out of Spain,” as one of our latest and best poets 
has aptly called him. Only a languidly tolerant interest 
was shown in the orchestral performance,—the “ Italian ” 
Symphony is not a really great or suggestive work, and 
this is probably the reason why it so often fails to arouse 
popular enthusiasm. For, be it understood by the criti¬ 
cal elect, that the heart-whole appreciation of the million 
is by no means so “ vulgar ” as it is frequently considered, 
—it is the impulsive response of those who, not being 
bound hand and foot by any special fetters of thought or 
prejudice, express what they instinctively fed to be true. 
You cannot force these “vulgar,” by any amount of 
“ societies,” to adopt Browning as a household god,—but 
they will appropriate Shakespeare, and glory in him, too, 
without any one’s compulsion, If authors, painters, and 


ABB ATII. 


" 515 

musicians would probe more earnestly than they do to 
the core of this instinctive higher aspiration of peoples , it 
would be all the better for their future fame. For each 
human unit in a nation has its great, as well as base pas¬ 
sions,—and it is the clear duty of all the votaries of art to 
appeal to and support the noblest side of nature only— 
moreover, to do so with a simple, unforced, yet graphic 
eloquence of meaning that can be grasped equally and at 
once by both the humble and exalted. 

“It is not in the least Italian”—saidHeliobas, alluding 
to the Symphony, when it was concluded, and the buzz of 
conversation surged through the hall like the noise that 
might be made by thousands of swarming bees,— u There 
is not a breath of Italian air or a glimpse of Italian light 
about it. The dreamy warmth of the South,—the radi¬ 
ant color that lies all day and all night on the lakes and 
mountains of Dante’s land,—the fragrance of flowers— 
the snatches of peasants’ and fishermen’s songs—the 
tunefulness of nightingales in the moonlight,—the tinkle 
of passing mandolins,— all these things should be hinted 
at in an ‘ Italian ’ Symphony—and all these are lacking. 
Mendelssohn tried to do what was not in him,—I do not 
believe the lialf-phlegmatic, half-philosophical nature of 
a German could ever understand the impetuously passion¬ 
ate soul of Italy.” 

As he spoke, a fair girl, with gray eyes that were 
almost black, glanced round at him inquiringly,—a faint 
blush flitted over her cheeks, and she seemed about to 
speak, but, as though restrained by timidity, she looked 
away again and said nothing. Heliobas smiled. 

“ That pretty child is Italian,” he whispered to Alwyn. 
“ Patriotism sparkled in those bright eyes of hers—love 
for the land of lilies, from which she is at present one 
transplanted! ” 

Alwyn smiled also, assentingly, and thought how gra¬ 
cious, kindly, and gentle were the look and voice of the 
speaker. He found it difficult to realize that this man, 
who now sat beside him in the stalls of a fashionable Lon¬ 
don concert-room, was precisely the same one who, clad 
in the long flowing white robes of his Order, had stood 
before the Altar in the chapel at Dariel, a stately embodi¬ 
ment of evangelical authority, intoning the Seven Glorias! 
It seemed strange, and yet not strange, for Heliobas was a 
personage who might be imagined anywhere,—by the 


516 


Alt!) ATE. 


bedside of a dying child, among the parliaments of the 
learned, in the most brilliant social assemblies, at the 
head of a church,.-—anything he chose to do would equally 
become him, inasmuch as it was utterly impossible to 
depict him engaged in otherwise than good and noble 
deeds. At that moment a tumultuous clamor of applause 
broke out on all sides,—applause that was joined in by 
the members of the orchestra as well as the audience,—- 
a figure emerged from a side door on the left and as^ 
cended the platform—a slight, agile creature, with rough, 
dark hair and eager, passionate eyes—no other than the 
hero of the occasion, Sarasate himself. Sarasate e il sno 
Violino ! —there they were, the two companions; master 
and servant—king and subject. The one, a lithe, active 
looking man of handsome, somewhat serious countenance 
and absorbed expression,—the other, a mere frame of 
wood with four strings deftly knotted across it, in which 
cunningly contrived little bit of mechanism was impris¬ 
oned the intangible, yet living Spirit of Sound. A mir¬ 
acle in its way!—that out of such common and even vile 
materials as wood, catgut, and horsehair, the divinest 
music can be drawn forth by the hand of the master who 
knows how to use these rough implements! Suggestive, 
too, is it not, my friends ?—for if man can by his own 
poor skill and limited intelligence so invoke spiritual 
melody by material means,—shall not God contrive some 
wondrous tunefulness for Himself even out of our com-, 
mon earthly discord ? . . . . Hush !—A sound sweet and 
far as the chime of angelic bells in some vast sky-tow T er, 
rang clearly through the hall over the heads of the now 
hushed and attentive audience—and Alwyn, hearing the 
penetrating silveriness of those first notes that fell from 
Sarasate’s bow, gave a quick sigh of amazenient and 
ecstasy,—such marvellous purity of tone was intoxicating 
to his senses, and set his nerves quivering for sheer de¬ 
light in sympathetic tune. He glanced at the programme, 
—“ Concerto—Beethoven ”—and swift as a flash there 
came to his mind some lines he had lately read ^-nd 
learned to love: 

“ It was the Kaiser of the Land of Song, 

The giant singer who did storm the gates 

Of Heaven and Hell—a man to whom the Fates 

Were fierce as furies,—and who suffered wrong, 

And ached and bore it, and was brave and strong 
And grand as ocean when its rage abates.” 


ART) ATE. 


517 


Beethoven ! . . Musical fullness of divine light! how 
the glorious nightingale notes of his unworded poesy came 
dropping through the air like pearls, rolling off the magic 
wand of the Violin Wizard, whose delicate dark face, now 
slightly flushed with the glow of inspiration, seemed to 
reflect by its very expression the various phases of the 
mighty composer’s thought! Alwyn half closed his eyes 
and listened entranced, allowing his soul to drift like an 
oarless boat on the sweeping waves of the music’s will. 
He was under the supreme sway of two Emperors of Art, 
—Beethoven and Sarasate,—and he was content to follow 
such leaders through whatever sweet tangles and tall 
growths of melody they might devise for his wandering. 
At one mad passage of dancing semitones he started,—it 
was as though a sudden wind, dreaming an enraged dream, 
had leaped up to shake tall trees to and fro,—and the 
Pass of Dariel, with its frozen mountain-peaks, its totter¬ 
ing pines, and howling hurricanes, loomed back upon his 
imagination as he had seen it first on the night he had 
arrived at the Monastery—but soon these wild notes sank 
and slept again in the dulcet harmony of an Adagio softer 
than a lover’s song at midnight. Many strange sugges¬ 
tions began to glimmer ghost-like through this same 
Adagio ,—the fair, dead face of Niphrata flitted past him, 
as a wandering moonbeam flits athwart a cloud,—then 
came flashing reflections of light and color,—the bewilder¬ 
ing dazzlement of Lysia’s beauty shone before the eyes of 
ms memory with a blinding lustre as of flame, . . the 
phantasmagoria of the city of Al-Kyris seemed to float in 
the air like a faintly discovered mirage ascending from 
the sea,—again he saw its picturesque streets, its domes 
and bell-towers, its courts and gardens . . again he heard 
the dreamy melody of the dance that had followed the death 
of Nir-jalis, and saw the cruel Lysia’s wondrous garden 
lying white in the radiance of the moon ; anon he beheld 
the great Square, with its fallen Obelisk and the prostrate, 
lifeless form of the Prophet Khosrtil . . and . . Oh, most 
sad and dear remembrance of all ! . . the cherished 
Shadow of Himself, the brilliant, the joyous Sah-lftma 
appeared to beckon him from the other side of some vast 
gulf of mist and darkness, with a smile that was sorrow¬ 
ful, yet persuasive; a smile that seemed to say—“ 0 
friend , ichy hast thou left me as though I were a dead thing 
and unworthy of regard? —Xo, I have never died,—I am 


518 


ABDATH. 


here, an abandoned part of Tiiee, ready to become thine 
inseparable comrade once more if thou make but the 
slightest sign ! ”—Then it seemed as though voices whis¬ 
pered in his ear—“ Sah-lUma! beloved Sah-Mma ! ”—and 
“ Theos ! Theos, my beloved ! ’’—till, moved by a vague 
tremor of anxiety, he lifted his drooping eyelids and gazed 
full in a sort of half-incredulous, half-reproachful amaze 
at the musical necromancer who had conjured up all these 
apparitions,—what did this wonderful Sarasate know of 
his Past ? 

Nothing, indeed,—he had ceased, and was gravely bow¬ 
ing to the audience in response to the thunder of applause, 
that, like a sudden whirlwind, seemed to shake the build¬ 
ing. But he had not quite finished his incantations,—the 
last part of the Concerto was yet to come,—and as soon 
as the hubbub of excitement had calmed down, he dashed 
into it with the delicious speed and joy of a lark soaring 
into the springtide air. And now on all sides what clear 
showers and sparkling coruscations of melody!—w r hat a 
broad, blue sky above!—what a fair, green earth below ! 
—how warm and odorous this radiating space, made re¬ 
sonant with the ring of sweet bird-harmonies!—wild thrills 
of ecstasy and lover-like tenderness—snatches of song 
caught up from the flower-filled meadov r s and set to float 
in echoing liberty through the azure dome of heaven !— 
and in all and above all, the light and heat and lustre of 
the unclouded sun!—Here there was no dreaming pos¬ 
sible, . . nothing but glad life, glad youth, glad love ! 
With an ambrosial rush of tune, like the lark descending, 
the dancing bow cast forth the final chord from the violin 
as though it were a diamond flung from the hand of a 
king, a flawless jewel of pure sound,—and the Minstrel 
monarch of Andalusia, serenely saluting the now wildly 
enthusiastic audience, left the platform. But he was not 
allowed to escape so soon,—again and again, and yet again, 
the enormous crowal summoned him before them, for the 
mere satisfaction of looking at his slight figure, his dark, 
poetic face, and soft, half-passionate, half-melancholy eyes, 
as though anxious to convince themselves that he was 
indeed human, and not a supernatural being, as his marvel¬ 
lous genius seemed to indicate. When at last he had re¬ 
tired for a breathing-while, Heliobas turned to Aiwyn 
with the question: 

w What do you think of him?” 


ARB ATH. 


519 


«* Think of him! ” echoed Alwyn—“ Why, what can one 
tiurnk,—what can one say of such an artist!—He is like a 
grand sunrise,—baffling all description and all criticism! ” 
rfeliobas smiled,—there was a little touch of satire in 
his smile, 

“ Vo you see that gentleman ? ” he said, in a low tone, 
pointing out by a gesture a pale, flabby-looking young 
man who was lounging languidly in a stall not very far 
from where they themselves sat,—“He is the musical 
critic for one of the leading London daily papers. He has 
not stirred an inch, or moved an eyelash, during Sarasate’s 
performance,—and the violent applause of the audience 
was manifestly distasteful to him! He has merely written 
one line down in his note-book,—it is most probably to 
the effect that the 4 Spanish fiddler met with his usual 
success at the hands of the undiscriminating public ’! ” 
Alwyn laughed. “ Not possible! ”—and he eyed the 
impassive individual in question with a certain compas¬ 
sionate amusement,—“Why, if he cannot admire such a 
magnificent artist as Sarasate, what is there in the world 
that will rouse his admiration ! ” 

“ Nothing! ” rejoined Heliobas, his eyes twinkling 
humorously as he spoke— 44 Nothing,—unless it is his own 
perspicuity! Nil admirari is the critic’s motto. The 
modern 4 Zabastes ’ must always be careful to impress his 
readers in the first place with his personal superiority to 
all men and all things,—and the musical Oracle yonder 
will no doubt be clever enough to make his report of Sara¬ 
sate in such a manner as to suggest the idea that he could 
play the violin much better himself, if he only cared to 
try ! ” 

44 Ass ! ” said Alwyn under his breath— 44 One would like 
to shake him out of his absurd self-complacency! ” 
Heliobas shrugged his shoulders expressively: 

“ My dear fellow, he would only bray!—and the braying 
of an ass is not euphonious! No!—you might as well 
shake a dry clothes-prop and expect it to blossom into 
fruit and flower, as argue with a musical critic, and expect 
him to be enthusiastic! The worst of it is, these men are 
not really musical,—they perhaps know a little of the 
grammar and technique of the thing, but they cannot un¬ 
derstand its full eloquence. In the presence of a genius 
like Pablo de Sarasate they are more or less perplexed,— 
it is as though you ask them to describe in set, cold terms 


520 


ARDATU. 


the counterpoint and thoroughbass of the wind’s symphony 
to the trees,—the great ocean’s sonata to the shore, or the 
delicate madrigals sung almost inaudibly by little bell- 
blossoms to the tinkling fall of April rain. The man is 
too great for them—he is a blazing star that dazzles and 
confounds their sight—and, after the manner of their 
craft, they abuse what they can’t understand. Music is 
distinctly the language of the emotions,—and they have 
no emotion. They therefore generally prefer Joachim,— 
the good, stolid Joachim, who so delights all the dreary 
old spinsters and dowagers who nod over their knitting- 
needles at the ‘Monday Popular’ concerts, and fancy 
themselves lovers of the ‘ classical ’ in music. Sarasate 
appeals to those who have loved, and thought, and suffered 
—those who have climbed the heights of passion and 
wrung out the depths of pain,—and therefore the people, , 
taken en masse , as, for instance, in this crowded hall, in¬ 
stinctively respond to his magic touch. And why ?—Be¬ 
cause the greater majority of human beings are full of the 
deepest and most passionate feelings, not as yet having 
been ‘ educated ’ out of them ! ” 

Here the orchestra commenced Liszt’s “ Preludes ”—• 
and all conversation ceased. Afterwards Sarasate came 
again to bestow upon his eager admirers another saving 
grace of sound, in the shape of the famous Mendelssohn 
Concerto , which he performed with such fiery ardor, ten¬ 
derness, purity of tone, and marvellous execution that 
many listeners held their breath for sheer amazement and 
delighted awe. Anything approaching the beauty of his 
rendering of the final “Allegro” Alwyn had never heard, 
—and indeed it is probable none will ever hear a more 
poetical, more exquisite singing of thought than this 
matchless example of Sarasate’s genius and power. Who 
would not warm to the brightness and delicacy of those 
delicious rippling tones, that seemed to leap from the 
strings alive like sparks of fire—the dainty, tripping ease 
of the arpeggi , that float from the bow with the grace of 
rainbow bubbles blown forth upon the air,—the brilliant 
runs, that glide and glitter up and down like chattering 
brooks sparkling among violets and meadow-sweet,—the 
lovely softer notes, that here and there sigh between the 
varied harmonies with the cteeamy passion of lovers who 
part, only to meet again in a rush of eager joy !—Alwyn 
sat absorbed and spellbound; he forgot the passing of 


USSATT*. 

52i 

ULiie,—i'-.; tui.jOo oven tfte presence or lieiiooas,_he could 

■only listen, and gratefully drink in every drop of sweet¬ 
ness that was so lavishly poured upon him from such p 
glorious sky of sunlit sound. 

Presently, toward the end of the performance, a curious 
thing happened. Sarasate had appeared to play the last 
piece set down for him,—a composition of his own, entitled 
a ZigeunerweisenP A gypsy song, or medley of gypsy 
songs, it would be, thought Alwyn, glancing at his pro¬ 
gramme,—then, looking towards the artist, who stood 
with lifted bow like another Prospero, prepared to sum¬ 
mon forth the Ariel of music at a touch, he saw that the 
dark Spanish eyes of the maestro were fixed full upon 
him, with, as lie then fancied, a strange, penetrating smile 
in their fiery depths. One instant . . and a weird lament 
came sobbing from the smitten violin,—a wildly beautiful 
despair was wordlessly proclaimed, . . a melody that 
went straight to the heart and made it ache, and burn, 
and throb with a rising tumult of unlanguaged passion 
and desire! The solemn, yet unfettered, grace of its 
rhythmic respiration suggested to Alwyn, first darkness, 
—then twilight—then the gradual far-glimmering of a 
silvery dawn,—till out of the shuddering notes there - 
seemed to grow up a vague, vast, and cool whiteness, 
splendid and mystical,—a whiteness that from shapeless, 
fleecy mist took gradual form and substance, . . . the 
great concert-hall, with its closely packed throng of people, 
appeared to fade away like vanishing smoke,—and lo! — 
before the poet’s entranced gaze there rose up a wondrous 
vision of stately architectural grandeur,—a vision of snowy 
columns and lofty arches, upon which fell a shimmering 
play of radiant color flung by the beams of the sun through 
stained glass windows glistening jewel-wise,—a tremulous 
sound of voices floated aloft, singing, “ Kyrie Eleison !— 
Eyrie Eleison ! ”—and the murmuring undertone of the 
organ shook the still air with deep vibrations of holy tune. 
Everywhere peace,—everywhere purity ! everywhere 
that spacious whiteness, flecked with side-gleams of royal 
purple, gold, and ardent crimson,—and in the midst of all, 
—O dearest tenderness !—O fairest glory !—a face, shin¬ 
ing forth like a star in & &lmid!—a face dazzlingly beauti¬ 
ful and sweet,—a goldeii head, above which the pale halo 
of a light ethereal hovered lovingly in a radiant ring! 

“ Ennis! The chaste name breathed itself silently m 


522 


ARDATTI. 


Alwyn’s thoughts,—silently and yet with all the passion 
of a lover’s prayer! How was it, he wondered dimly, 
that he saw her thus distinctly wow,—now, when the violin- 
music wept its wildest tears—now when love, love, love, 
seemed to clamor in a tempestuous agony of appeal from f 
the low, pulsating melody of the marvellous “ Zigeuner - 1 
weisen ,” a melody which, despite its name, had revealed 
to one listener, at any rate, nothing concerning the wan¬ 
derings of gypsies over forest and moorland,—but on the 
contrary had built up all these sublime cathedral arches, 
this lustrous light, this exquisite face, whose loveliness 
was his life! How had he found his way into such a 
dream sanctuary of frozen snow?—what was his mission 
there ?—and why, when the picture slowly faded, did it 
still haunt his memory invitingly,—persuasively,—nay, 
almost commandiugly ? 

He could not tell,—but his mind was entirely ravished 
and possessed by an absorbing impression of white, sculp¬ 
tured calm,—and he was as startled as though he had been 
brusquely awakened from a deep sleep, when the loud 
plaudits of the people made him aware that Sarasate had 
finished his programme, and was departing from the scene 
of his triumphs. The frenzied shouts and encores, how¬ 
ever brought him once more before the excited public, to 
play a set of Spanish dances, fanciful and delicate as the 
gamboling of a light breeze over rose-gardens and dashing 
fountains,—and when this wonder-music ceased, Alwyn 
woke from tranced rapture into enthusiasm, and joined in 
the thunders of applause with fervent warmth and zeal. 
Eight several times did the wearied, but ever affable, 
maestro ascend the platform to bow and smile his graceful 
acknowledgments, till the audience, satisfied with having 
thoroughly emphasized their hearty appreciation of his 
genius, permitted him to finally retire. Then the people 
flocked out of the hall in crowds, talking, laughing, and 
delightedly commenting upon the afternoon’s enjoyment, 
the brief remarks exchanged by two Americans who were 
sauntering on immediately in front of Heliobas and Alwyn 
being perhaps the very pith and essence of the universal 
opinion concerning the great artist they had just heard. 

“ I tell you what he is, v said one, “ lie’s a demi-god! ” 

“Oh, don’t halve it! ” rejoined the other wittily, “he’s 
the whole thing anyway! ” 

Once outside the hall and in the busy street, now ren* 


AUDATU. 


523 


dered doubly brilliant by the deep saffron light of a 
gloriously setting sun, Ileliobas prepared to take leave 
of his somewhat silent and preoccupied companion. 

“I see you are still under the sway of the Ange- 
Demon ,” he remarked cheerfully, as he shook hands, “ Is 
he not an amazing fellow? That how of his is a veritable 
divining-rod, it finds out the fountain of Elusidis * in each 
human heart,—it has but to pronounce a note, and straight¬ 
way the hidden waters begin to bubble. But don’t for¬ 
get to read the newspaper accounts of this concert! You 
will see that the critics will make no allusion whatever 
to the enthusiasm of the audience, and that the numerous 
encores will not even be mentioned! ” 

“ That is unfair,” said Alwyn quickly. “ The expres¬ 
sion of the people’s appreciation should always be chron¬ 
icled.” 

“ Of course!—but it never is, unless it suits the im¬ 
mediate taste of the cliques. Clique-Art, clique-Litera- 
ture, clique-Criticism, keep all three things on a low 
ground that slopes daily more and more toward decad¬ 
ence. And the pity of it is, that the English get judged 
abroad chiefly by what their own journalists say of them, 
—thus, if Sarasate is coldly criticised, foreigners laugh at 
the ‘tmnmsical English,’ whereas, the fact is that the 
nation itself is not unmusical, but its musical critics mostly 
are. They are very often picked out of the rank and file 
of the dullest Academy students and contrapuntists, who 
are incapable of understanding anything original, and 
therefore are the persons most unfitted to form a correct 
estimate of genius. However, it has always been so, and 
I suppose it always will be so,—don’t you remember that 
when Beethoven began his grand innovations, a certain 
critic-ass-ter wrote of him, ‘ The absurdity of his effort is 
only equalled by the hideousness of its result ’! ” 

He laughed lightly, and once more shook hands, while 
Alwyn, looking at him wistfully, said: 

“ I wonder when we shall meet again ? ” 

“ Oh, very soon, I dare say,” he rejoined. “ The world 
is a wonderfully small place, after all, as men find when 
they jostle up against each other unexpectedly in the most 
unlikely corners of far countries. You may, if you choose, 
correspond with me, and that is a privilege I accord to few, 

* A miraculous fountain spoken of in old chronicles, whose waters 
rose to the sound of music, and, the music ceasing, sank again. 


524 


ABDATR. 


I assure you! ” He smiled, and then went on in a more 
serious tone, “ You are, of course, welcome at our monas¬ 
tery whenever you wish to come, but, take my advice, do 
not wilfully step out of the sphere in which you are 
placed. Live in society, it needs men of your stamp and 
intellectual calibre; show it a high and consistent example 
—let no eccentricity mar yora* daily actions—work at your 
destiny steadily, cheerfully, serenely, and leave the rest 
to God, and—the angels! ” 

There was a slight, tender inflection in his voice as he 
spoke the last words,—and Alwyn gave him a quick, 
searching glance. But his blue, penetrating eyes were 
calm and steadfast, full of their usual luminous softness 
and pathos, and there was nothing expressed in them but 
the gentlest friendliness. 

“ Well! I’m glad I may write to you, at any rate,” 
said Alwyn at last, reluctantly releasing his hand. “It 
is possible I may not remain long in London; I want to 
finish my poem, and it gets on too slowly in the tumult of 
daily life in town.” 

“ Then will you go abroad again ? ” inquired Heliobas. 

“ Perhaps. I may visit Bonn, where I was once & 
student for a time. It is a peaceful, sleepy little place,— 
I shall probably complete my work easily there. More¬ 
over, it will be like going back to a bit of my youth. I 
remember I first began to entertain all my dreams of 
poesy at Bonn.” 

“ Inspired by the Seven Mountains and the Drachen- 
fels! ” laughed Heliobas. “ No wonder you recalled the 
lost ‘ Sah-lftma’ period in the sight of the entrancing Rhine! 
Ah, Sir Poet, you have had your fill of fame! and I fear 
the plaudits of London will never be like those of AI- 
Kyris! No monarchs will honor you now, but rather 
despise ! for the kings and queens of this age prefer finaru 
ciers to Laureates ! Now, wherever you wander, let me 
hear of your well-being and progress in contentment; 
when you write, address to our Dariel retreat, for though 
on my return from Mexico I shall probably visit Lemnos, 
my letters will always be forwarded. Adieu! ” 

“ Adieu ! ” and their eyes met. A grave sweet smile 
brightened the Chaldean’s handsome features. 

“ God remain with you, my friend! ” he said, in a low, 
**wil!ingly earnest tone. “ Believe me, you are elected to 


ARDAT11. 


525 

I a strangely happy -Me!—far happier than you at present 
I know! ” 

_ With these words he turned and was gone,—lost to 
sight in the surging throng of passers-by. Aiwyn looked 
eagerly after him, but saw him no more. His tall figure 
had vanished as utterly as any of the phantom shapes in 
Al-Kyris, only that, far from being spectre-like, he had 
seemed more actually a living personality than any of the 
people in the streets who were hurrying to and fro on 
their various errands of business or pleasure. 

That same night when Aiwyn related his day’s advent- 
ture to Yilliers, who heard it with the most absorbed in¬ 
terest, he was describing the effect of Sarasate’s violin¬ 
playing, when all at once he was seized by the same curi¬ 
ous, overpowering impression of white, lofty arches, 
stained windows, and jewel-like glimmerings of color, and 
he suddenly stopped short in the midst of his narrative. 

“ What’s the matter ? ” asked Yilliers, astonished. “ Go 
on!—you were saying,—” 

“ That Sarasate is one of the divinest of God’s wander¬ 
ing melodies,” went on Aiwyn, slowly and with a faint 
smile. “ And that though, as a rule, musicians are for¬ 
gotten when their music ceases, this Andalusian Orpheus 
in Thrace will be remembered long after his violin is laid 
aside, and he himself has journeyed to a sunnier land 
than Spain! But I am not master of my thoughts to-night, 
Yilliers; my Chaldean friend has perhaps mesmerized 
me—who knows! and I have an odd fancy upon me. I 
should like to spend an hour in some great and beautiful 
cathedral, and see the light of the rising sun flashing 
through the stained windows across the altar! ” 

“ Poet and dreamer! ” laughed Yilliers. “ You can’t 
gratify that whim in London; there’s no ‘great and 
beautiful ’ edifice of the kind here,—only the unfinished 
Oratory, Westminster Abbey, broken up into ugly pews 
and vile monuments, and the repellently grimy St. Paul’s 
—so go to bed, old boy, and indulge yourself in some 
more ‘visions,’ for I assure you you’ll never find any 
reality come up to your ideal of things in general.” 

“No?” and Aiwyn smiled. “Strange that I see it in 
quite the reverse way ! It seems to me, no ideal will ever 
come up to the splendor of reality! ” 

“ But remember,” said Yilliers quickly, “ your reality is 
heaven,—a ‘ reality ’ that is every one else’s myth! ” 


526 


ARDATU. 


“ True! terribly true! ” . . and Alwyn’s eyes darkened 
sorrowfully. “Yet the world’s myth is the only Eternal 
Real, and for the shadows of this present Seeming we 
barter our immortal Substance! ” 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

BY THE RHINE. 

In the two or three weeks that followed his meeting 
with Heliobas, Alwyn made up his mind to leave London 
for a while. He was tired and restless,—tired of the 
routine society more or less imposed upon him,—restless 
because he had come to a standstill in his work—an 
invisible barrier, over which his creative fancy was unable 
to take its usual sweeping flight. He had an idea of seek¬ 
ing some quiet spot among mountains, as far remote as 
possible from the travelling world of men,—a peaceful 
place, where, with the majestic silence of Nature all about 
him, he might plead in lover-like retirement with his re¬ 
fractory Muse, and strive to coax her into a sweeter and 
more indulgent humor. It was not that thoughts were 
lacking to him,—what he complained of was the monotony 
of language and the difficulty of finding new, true, and 
choice forms of expression. A great thought leaps into 
the brain like a lightning flash; there it is, an indescrib¬ 
able mystery, warming the soul and pervading the 
intellect, but the proper expression of that thought is a 
matter of the deepest anxiety to the true poet, who, if 
he be worthy of his vocation, is bound not only to 
proclaim it to the world dearly , but also clad in such a 
perfection of wording that it shall chime on men’s ears 
with a musical sound as of purest golden bells. There are 
very few faultless examples of this felicitous utterance in 
English or in any literature, so few, indeed, that they 
could almost all be included in one newspaper column of 
ordinary print. Keats’s exquisite line * 

“ iEea’s isle was wondering at the moon”. . 

in which the word “wondering ” paints a whole landscape 
of dreamy enchantment, and the couplet in the “ Ode to 
a Nightingale,” that speaks with a delicious vagueness of 


ARDATH. 


627 


M Magic casements opening on the foam 
Of perilous seas in faery lands forlorn,”— 

are absolutely unique and unrivalled, as is the exquisite 
alliteration taken from a poet of our own day : 

“ The holy lark, 

With fire from heaven and sunlight on his wing, 

Who wakes the world with witcheries of the dark, 
Renewed in rapture in the reddening air ! ” 

Again from the same : 


“ The chords of the lute are entranced 
With the weight of the wonder of things”; 

and 

“ his skyward notes 
Have drenched the summer with the dews of song 1 


11 


this last line being certainly one of the most suggestive 
and beautiful in all poetical literature. Such expressions 
have the intrinsic quality of completeness ,—once Said, we 
feel that they can never be said again ;—they belong to 
the centuries, rather than the seasons, and any imitation 
of them we immediately and instinctively resent as an 
outrage. 

And Theos Alwyn was essentially, and above all things, 
faithful to the lofty purpose of his calling,—he dealt with 
his art reverently, and not in rough haste and scrambling 
carelessness,—if he worked out any idea in rhyme, the 
idea was distinct and the rhyme was perfect,—he was not 
content, like Browning, to jumble together such hideous 
and ludicrous combinations as “ high ;—Humph ! ” and 
“ triumph,”—moreover, he knew that what he had to tell 
his public must be told comprehensively, yet grandly, 
with all the authority and persuasiveness of incisive 
rhetoric, yet also with all the sweetness and fascination 
of a passioned love-song. Occupied with such work as 
this, London, with its myriad mad noises and vulgar dis¬ 
tractions, became impossible to him,—and Yilliers, his 
fidus Achates , who had read portions of his great poem 
and was impatient to see it finished, knowing, as he did, 
what an enormous sensation it would create when pub¬ 
lished, warmly seconded his own desire to gain a*couple 
of months complete seclusion and tranquillity. 

He left town, therefore, about the middle of May and 


528 


ABDATH. 


started across the Channel, resolving to make for Switzer¬ 
land by the leisurely and delightful way of the Rhine, in 
order to visit Bonn, the scene of his old student days. 
What days they had been!—days of dreaming, more 
than action, for lie had always regarded learning as a pas¬ 
time rather than a drudgery, and so had easily distanced 
his comrades in the race for knowledge. While they 
were flirting with the Lischen or Gretchen of the hour-, 
he had willingly absorbed himself in study—thus he had 
attained the head of his classes with scarce an effort, and, 
in fact, had often found time hanging heavily on his hands 
for want of something more to do. He had astonished 
the university professors—but he had not astonished him., 
self, inasmuch as no special branch of learning presented! 
any difficulties to him, and the more he mastered the 
more dissatisfied he became. It had seemed such a little? 
thing to win the honors of scholarship! for at that time 
his ambition was always climbing up the apparently in¬ 
accessible heights of fame,—fame, that he then imagined 
was the greatest glory any human being could aspire/ 
to. He smiled as he recollected this, and thought how 
changed he was since then ! What a difference between 
the former discontented mutability of his nature, and the 
deep, unswerving calm of patience that characterized it 
now! Learning and scholarship ? these were the mere 
child’s alphabet of things,—and fame was a passing 
breath that ruffled for one brief moment the on-rushing 
flood of time—a bubble blown in the air to break into 
nothingness. Thus much wisdom he had acquired,—and 
what more ? A great deal more! he had won the difficult 
comprehension of himself; he had grasped the priceless 
knowledge that man has no enemy save that which is 
within him , and that the pride of a rebellious Will is the 
parent Sin from which all others are generated. The old 
Scriptural saying is true for all time, that through pride 
the angels fell; and it is only through humility that they 
will ever rise again. Pride ! the proud Will that is left 
free by Divine Law, to work for itself and answer for it¬ 
self, and wreak upon its own head the punishment of its 
own errors,—the Will that once voluntarily crushed down 
in the dust at the Cross of Christ, with these words truly 
drawn from the depths of penitence, “Lord, not as I will, 
but as Thou wilt!” is straightway lifted up from its 
humiliation, a supreme, stately Force, resistless, niiracu- 


ABDATR 


529 


lous, WQrld-Gommanding ;—smoothing the way for ali 
greatness and all goodness, and guiding the happy Soul 
from joy to joy, from glory to glory, till Heaven itself is 
reached and the perfection of all love and life begins. 
For true humility is not slavish, as some people imagine, 
hut rather royal, since, while acknowledging the suprem¬ 
acy of God, it claims close kindred with Him, and is at 
once invested with all the diviner virtues. Fame and 
wealth, the two perishable prizes for which men struggle 
with one another in ceaseless and cruel combat, bring no 
absolute satisfaction in the end—they are toys that please 
for a time and then grow wearisome. But the conquer¬ 
ing of Self is a battle in which each fresh victory bestows 
a deeper content, a larger happiness, a more perfect 
peace,—and neither poverty, sickness, nor misfortune can 
quench the courage, or abate the ardor, of the warrior 
who is absorbed in a crusade against his own worser 
passions. Egotism is the vice of this age,—the maxim of 
modern society is M each man for himself, and no one for 
his neighbor ”—and in such a state of things, when per¬ 
sonal interest or advantage is the chief boon desired, we 
cannot look for honesty in either religion, politics, or 
commerce. Nor can we expect any grand work to be done 
in art or literature. When pictures are painted and 
books are written for money only,—when laborers take 
no pleasure in labor save for the wage it brings,—when 
no real enthusiasm is shown in anything except the 
accumulation of wealth,—and when all the finer senti¬ 
ments and nobler instincts of men are made subject to 
Mammon worship, is any one so mad and blind as to 
think that good can come of it ? Nothing but evil upon 
evil can accrue from such a system,—and those who have 
prophetic eyes to see through the veil of events can per¬ 
ceive, even now, the not far distant end—namely, the 
ruin of the country that has permitted itself to degen¬ 
erate into a mere nation of shopkeepers,—and something 
worse than ruin,—degradation! 

It was past eight in the evening when Alwyn, after hav¬ 
ing spent a couple of days in bright little Brussels, arrived 
at Cologne. Most travelers know to their cost how noisy, 
narrow, and unattractive are the streets of this ancient 
Oolonia Agrippina of the Romans,—how persistent and 
wearying is the rattle of the vehicles over the rough, 
cobbly stones —how irritating to the nerves is the inees- 
34 - - 


530 


ARDATH. 


sanfc shrieking whistle and clank of the Rhine steamboats 
as they glide in, or glide out, from the cheerless and dirty 
pier. But at night, when these unpleasant sounds have 
partially subsided, and the lights twinkle in the shop- 
windows, and the majestic mass of the Cathedral casts its 
broad shadow on the moonlit Dom-Platz, and a few sol¬ 
diers, with clanking swords and glittering spurs, come 
marching out from some dark stone archway, and the 
green gleam of the river sparkles along in luminous rip- 
ides,—then it is that a something weird and mystical 
creeps over the town, and the glamour of ancient, histori¬ 
cal memories begins to cling about its irregular buildings, 
—one thinks of the legendary Three Kings, and believes 
in them, too,—of St. Ursula and her company of virgins; 
of Marie de Medicis dying alone in that tumbled-down 
house in the Stern-gasse,—of Rubens, who, it is said, 
here first saw the light of this world,—of an angry Satan 
flinging his Teufelstein from the Seven Mountains in an 
impotent attempt to destroy the Dom; and gradually, 
the indestructible romantic spell of the Rhine steals into 
the spirit of common things that were unlovely by day, 
and makes the old city beautiful under the sacred glory 
of the stars. 

Alwyn dined at his hotel, and then, finding it still too 
early to retire to rest, strolled slowly across the Platz, 
looking up at the sublime God’s Temple above him, the 
stately Cathedral, with its wondrously delicate carvings 
and flying buttresses, on which the moonlight glittered 
like little points of pale flame. He knew it of old; many 
and many a time had he taken train from Bonn, for the 
sole pleasure of spending an hour in gazing on that splen¬ 
did “ sermon in stone,”—one of the grandest testimonies 
in the world of man’s instinctive desire to acknowledge 
and honor, by his noblest design and work, the unseen 
but felt majesty of the Creator. He had a great longing 
to enter it now, and ascended the steps with that inten¬ 
tion; but, much to his vexation, the doors were shut. 
He walked from the side to the principal entrance; that 
superb western frontage which is so cruelly blocked in by 
a dwarfish street of the commonest shops and meanest 
houses,—and found that also closed against him. Disap¬ 
pointed and sorry, he went back again to the side of the 
colossal structure, and stood on the top of the steps, close 
to the central barred doors, stucUinp* the sculptured 

* • - - - _ * **— 


Alt DA TH. 


531 


saints in the niches, and feeling a sudden, singular im¬ 
pression of extreme loneliness,-— a sense of being shut out, 
as it were, from some high festival in which he would 
gladly have taken part. 

Not a cloud was in the sky,. . the evening was one of 
the most absolute calm, and a delicious warmth pervaded 
the air,—the warmth of a fully declared and balmy spring. 
The Platz was almost deserted,—only a few persons 
crossed it now and then, like flitting shadows,—and some¬ 
where down in one of the opposite streets a long way off, 
there was a sound of men’s voices singing a part-song. 
Presently, however, this distant music ceased, and a deep 
silence followed. Alwyn still remained in the sombre 
shade of the cathedral archway, arguing with himself 
against the foolish and unaccountable depression that 
had seized him, and watching the brilliant May moon 
soar up higher and higher in the heavens ; when,—all at 
once, the throbbing murmur of the great organ inside 
the Dom startled him from pensive dreaminess into swift 
attention. He listened,—the rich, round notes thundered 
through the stillness with forceful and majestic harmony; 
anon, wierd tones, like the passionate lament of Sarasate’s 
“ Zigeunerweisen ,” floated around and above him : then, a 
silvery chorus of young voices broke forth in solemn 
unison: 

“ Kyrie Eleison ! Christe Eleison ! Kyrie Eleison ! ” 

A faint cold tremor crept through his veins,—his heart 
beat violently,—again he vainly strove to open the great 
door. Was there a choir practising inside at this hour 
of the night? Surely not! Then,—from whence had 
this music its origin ? Stooping, he bent his ear to the 
crevice of the closed portal,—but, as suddenly as they had 
begun, the harmonies ceased; and all was once more pro¬ 
foundly still. 

Drawing a long, deep breath, he stood for a moment 
amazed and lost in thought—these sounds, he felt sure, 
were not of earth but of heaven ! they had the same ring¬ 
ing sweetness as those he had heard on the Field of 
Ardath! What might they mean to him, here and now ? 
Quick as a flash the an swer came— Death ! God had taken 
pity upon his solitary earth wanderings,—and the prayers 
of Edris had shortened his world-exile and probation! 
He was to die ! and that solemn singing was the warning, 
—or the promise,—of his approaching end! 


532 


ARDATH. 


Yes! it must be so, lie decided, as, with a strange, half- 
sad peace at his heart, he quietly descended the steps of the 
Dom,—he would perhaps be permitted to finish the work 
he was at present doing,—and then,—then, the poet-pen 
would be laid aside forever, chains would be undone, and 
he would be set at liberty! Such was his fixed idea. 
Was he glad of the prospect, he asked himself? Yes, and 
No ! For himself he was glad ; but in these latter days 
he had come to understand the thousand wordless wants 
and aspirations of mankind,—wants and aspirations to 
which only the Poet can give fitting speech; he had 
begun to see how much can be done to cheer and raise 
and ennoble the world by even one true, brave, earnest, 
and unselfish worker,—and he had attained to such a height 
in sympathetic comprehension of the difficulties and 
drawbacks of others, that he had ceased to consider him¬ 
self at all in the question, either with regard to the Pres¬ 
ent or the immortal Future,—he was, without knowing it, 
in the simple, unconsciously perfect attitude of a Soul 
that is absolutely at one with God, and that thus, in in¬ 
voluntary God-likeness, is only happy in the engender¬ 
ing of happiness. lie believed that, with the Divine help, 
he could do a lasting good for his fellow-men,—and to 
this cause he was willing to sacrifice everything that 
pertained to his own mere personal advantage. But now, 
—now,—or so he imagined,—he was not to be allowed to 
pursue his labors of love,—his trial was to end suddenly, 
—and he, »© long banished from his higher heritage, was 
to be restored to it without delay,—restored and drawn 
back to the land of perfect loveliness where Edris, his 
Angel, waited for him, his saint, his queen, his bride ! 

A thrill of ecstatic joy rushed through him,—joy in¬ 
termingled with an almost supernal pain. For he had 
not as yet said enough to the world,—the world of many 
afflictions,—the little Sorrowful Star covered with toiling, 
anxious, deluded God-forgetting millions, in every unit of 
which was a spark of Heavenly flame, a germ of the 
spiritual essence that makes the angel, if only fostered 
aright. 

Lost in a deep reverie, his footsteps had led him un¬ 
consciously to tho Rhine bridge,—paying the customary 
fee, he walked about half-way across it, and stood for a 
while listening to the incessant swift rush of the river 
beneath him. Lights twinkled from the boats moored 


ABB ATE. 




on either side,^the moon poured down a wide shower of 
white beams on the rapid flood,—the city, dusky and 
dream-like, crowned with the majestic towers of the 
Dom, looked picturesquely calm and grand—it was a 
• night of perfect beauty and wondrous peace. And he was 
to die!—to die and leave all this, the present fairness of. 
the world,—he was to depart, with, as he felt, his message 
r half unspoken,—he was to be made eternally happy, while 
many of the thousands he left behind were, through ig- 
- norance, wilfully electing to be eternally miserable! A 
\ great, almost divine longing to save one ,—only one down¬ 
ward drifting soul, possessed him,—and the comprehension 
of Christ’s Sacrifice was no longer a mystery! Yet he 
was so certain that death, sudden and speedy closely, 
awaited him that he seemed to feel it in the very air,— 
not like a coming chill of dread, but like the soft approach 
of some holy seraph bringing benediction. It mattered 
little to him that he was actually in the very plenitude 
of health and strength,—that perhaps in all his life he 
had never felt such a keen delight in the physical per¬ 
fection of his manhood as now,—death, without warning 
and at a touch, could smite down the most vigorous, and 
to be so smitten, he believed, was his imminent destiny. 
And while lie lingered on the bridge, fancy-perplexed be¬ 
tween grief and joy, a small window opened in a quaint 
house that bent its bulging gables crookedly over the 
gleaming water, and a girl, holding a small lamp, looked 
out for a moment. Her face, fresh and smiling, was fair 
to see against the background of dense shadow,—the 
light she carried flashed like a star,—and leaning down 
from the lattice she sang half-timidly, half mischievously, 
the first two or three bars of the old song . . “ Du, du 9 
liegst in mein Herzen. ./” “Ah! Gute Nctcht , Lieb- 
chen! ” said a man’s voice below. 

“ Gute JVacht / Schlafen sie wohl! ” 

A light laugh, and the window closed, “ Good-night! 
Sleep well! ” Love’s best wish!—and for some sad souls 
life’s last hope,—a “ good-night and sleep well! ” Poor 
tired World, for whose weary inhabitants oftentimes the 
greatest blessing is sleep! Good-night! sleep well! but 
the sleep implies waking.—waking to a morning of 
pleasure or sorrow,—or labor that is only lightened by,— 
Love! Love!—love divine,—love human,—and, sweetest 


584 


AXDATJBr.^ 


love of all for us, as Christ has taught when both divine 
and human are mingled in one! 

Alwyn, glancing up at the clustering stars, hanging 
like pendent fire-jewels above him, thought of this mar¬ 
vel-glory of Love,—this celestial visitant who, on noiseless 
pinions, comes flying divinely into the poorest homes, 
transfiguring common life with with ethereal radiance, 
making toil easy, giving beauty to the plainest faces and 
poetry to the dullest brains. Love! its tremulous hand¬ 
clasp,—its rapturous kiss,—the speechless eloquence 
it gives to gentle eyes!—the grace it bestows on even the 
smallest gift from lover to beloved, were such gift but 
a handful of meadow blossoms tied with some silken 
threads of hair! 

Not for the poet creator of “ KourhdXma ” such love 
any more,—had he not drained the cup of Passion to the 
dregs in the far Past, and tasted its mixed sweetness and 
bitterness to no purpose save self-indulgence ? All that 
was over;—and yet, as he walked away from the bridge, 
back to his hotel in the quiet moonlight, he thought what 
a transcendent thing Love might be, even on earth, be¬ 
tween two whose spirits were spiritually akin ,—whose 
lives were like two notes played in tuneful concord,— 
whose hearts beat echoing faith and tenderness to one 
another,—and who held their love as a sacred bond of 
union—a gift from God, not to be despoiled by that rough 
familiarity which surely brings contempt. And then be¬ 
fore his fancy appeared to float the radiant visage of Edris, 
half-child, half-angel,—he seemed to see her beautiful 
eyes, so pure, so clear, so unshadowed by any knowledge 
of sin,—and the exquisite lines of a poet-contemporary, 
whose work he specially admired, occurred to him with 
singular suggestiveness: 

“ Oh, thou’It confess that love from man to maid 
Is more than kingdoms,—more than light and shade 
In sky-built gardens where the minstrels dwell, 

And more than ransom from the bonds of Hell. 

Thou wilt, I say, admit the truth of this, 

And half relent that, shrinking from a kiss, 

Thou didst consign me to mine own disdain. 
Athwart the raptures of a vision’d bliss. 

“ I’ll seek no joy that is not linked with thine, 

No touch of hope, no taste of holy wine, 

And after death, no home in any star, 

That is not shared by thee, supreme, afal 


ARDATH. 


635 


As here thou’rt first and foremost of all things 1 
Glory is thine, and gladness, and the wings 

That wait on thought, when, in thy spirit-sway, 
Thou dost invest a realm unknown to kings! ” 

Had not she, Edris, consigned him to his “ own disdain , 
Athwart the raptures of a visioned bliss?” Ay! truly 
and deservedly!—and this disdain of himself had now 
reached its culminating point,—namely, that he did not 
consider himself worthy of her love,—or worthy to do 
aught than sink again into far spaces of darkness and 
perpetually retrospective Memory, there to explore the 
uttermost depths of anguish, and count up his errors one 
by one from the very beginning of life, in every separate 
phase he had passed through, till he had penitently striven 
his best to atone for them all! Christ had atoned! yes, 
—but was it not almost base on his part to shield himself 
with that Divine Light and do nothing further ? He could 
not yet thoroughly grasp the amazing truth that one ab¬ 
solutely pure act of faith in Christ, blots out Past Sin for¬ 
ever,—it seemed too marvellous and great a boon ! 

When he retired to rest that night he was fully and 
firmly prepared to die. With this expectation upon him 
he was nevertheless happy and tranquil. The line— 
“ Glory is thine , and gladness , and the wings f haunted 
him, and he repeated it over and over again without know¬ 
ing why. Wings! the brilliant shafts of radiance that part 
angels from mortals,—wings, that, after all, are not really 
wings, but lambent rays of living lightning, of which 
neither painter nor poet has any true conception, . . long, 
dazzling rays such as encircled God’s maiden, Edris, with 
an arch of roseate effulgence, so that the very air was 
sunset-colored in the splendor of her presence! IIow if 
she were a wingless angel,—made woman? 

“ Glory is thine , and gladness , and the wings ! ” And 
with the name of his angel-love upon his lips he closed 
his eyes and sank into a deep and dreamless slumber. 

CHAPTER XL. 

IN THE CATHEDRAL. 

A booming, thunderous, yet mellow sound! a grand, 
solemn, sonorous swing of full and weighty rhythm, strik¬ 
ing the air with deep, slowly measured resonance like 


536 


ABDATH. 


til© rolling of close cannon! Awake, all ye people 
Awake to prayer and praise! for the Mght is past and 
sweet Morning reddens in the east, . . another Day is 
born,—a day in which to win God’s grace and pardon,— 
another wonder of Light, Movement, Creation, Beauty, 
Love! Awake, awake! Be glad and grateful for the 
present joy of life,—this life, dear harbinger of life to 
come! open your eyes, ye drowsy mortals, to the divine 
blue of the beneficent sky, the golden beams of the sun, 
the color of flowers, the foliage of trees, the flash of spark¬ 
ling waters!—open your ears to the singing of birds, the 
whispering of winds, the gay ripple of children’s laughter, 
the soft murmurs of home affection,—for all these things 
are freely bestowed upon you with each breaking dawn, 
and will you offer unto God no thanksgiving ?—Awake! 
Awake! the Voice you have yourselves set in your high 
Cathedral towers reproaches your lack of love with its 
iron tongue, and summons you all to worship Him the 
Ever-Glorious, through whose mercy alone you live ! 

To and fro,—to and fro,—gravely persistent, sublimely 
eloquent, the huge, sustained, and heavy monotone went 
thudding through the stillness,—till, startled from his 
profound sleep by such loud, lofty, and incessant clangor, 
Alwyn turned on his pillow and listened, half-aroused, 
half-bewildered,—then, remembering where he was, he 
understood; it was the great Bell of the Dom pealing 
forth its first summons to the earliest Mass. He lay 
quiet for a little while, dreamily counting the number of 
reverberations each separate stroke sent quivering on the 
air,—but presently, finding it impossible to sleep again, 
he got up, and drawing aside the curtain looked out of 
the window of his room, which fronted on the Platz. 
Though it was not yet six o’clock, the city was all astir, 
—the Rhinelanders are an early working people, and to 
see the sun rise is not with them a mere fiction of poesy, 
but a daily fact. It was one of the loveliest of lovely 
spring mornings—the sky was clear as a pale, polished 
sapphire, and every little bit of delicate carving and sculp¬ 
ture on the Dom stood out from its groundwork with 
microscopically beautiful distinctness. And as his gaze 
rested on the perfect fairness of the day, a strange and 
sudden sense of rapturous anticipation possessed his mind, 
—he felt as one prepared for some high and exquisite 
happiness, —some great and wondrous celebration or feast 


ARDATFT. 


587 


of joy4 The thoughts of death, oa which he had brooded 
so persistently during the past yester-eve, had fled, leav¬ 
ing no trace behind,—only a keen and vigorous delight 
in life absorbed him now. It was good to be alive, even 
on this present earth! it was good to see, to feel, to know! 
and there was much to be thankful for in the mere capa¬ 
bility of easy and healthful breathing! 

Full of a singular light-heartedness, he hummed a soft 
tune to himself as he moved about his room,—his desire 
to view the interior of the Cathedral had not abated with 
sleep, but had rather augmented,—and he resolved to 
visit it now, while he had the chance of beholding it in all 
the impressive splendor of uncrowded tranquillity. For 
he knew that by the time he was dressed, the first Mass 
would be over,—the priests and people would be gone,— 
and he would be alone to enjoy the magnificence of the 
place in full poet-luxury,—the luxury of silence and soli¬ 
tude. He attired himself quickly, and with a vaguely 
nervous eagerness,—he was in almost as great a hurry to 
enter the Dorn as he had been to arrive at the Field of 
Ardath! The same feverish impatience was upon him 
—impatience that he was conscious of, yet could not ac¬ 
count for,—his fancy busied itself with a whole host of 
memories, and fragments of half-forgotten, love-songs he 
had written in his youth, came back to him without his 
wish or will,—songs that he instinctively felt belonged 
to his Past, when as “ Sali-lUma” he had won golden 
opinions in Al-Kyris. And though they were but echoes, 
they seemed this morning to touch him with half-pleas¬ 
ing, half-tender suggestiveness,—two lines especially from 
the Idyl of Boses he had penned so long,—ah! so very 
long ago,—came floating through his brain like a message 
gent from some other world,— 

“ By the pureness of love shall our glory in loving increase, 

And the roses of passion for us are the lilies of peace.” 

The “lilies of peace and the flowers of Ardath,—the 
“ roses of passion and the love of Edris, these were 
all mingled almost unconsciously in his thoughts, as with 
an inexplicable, happy sense of tremulous expectation,— 
expectation of he knew not what—he went, walking as 
one in haste, across the broad Platz and ascended the 
steps ol the Cathedral. But the side-entrance was fast 



538 


AEBATIL 


shut, as on the previous night,—he therefore made his 
rapid way round to the great western door. That stood 
open,—the bell had long ago ceased,—Mass was over,—and 
all was profoundly still. 

Out of the warm sunlit air he stepped into the _ vast, 
cool, clear-obscure, white glory of the stately shrine,— 
with bared head and noiseless, reverent feet, he advanced 
a little way up the nave, and then stood motionless, 
every artistic perception in him satisfied, soothed, and 
entranced anew, as in his student-days, by the tranquil 
grandeur of the scene. What majestic silence! What 
hallowed peace! How jewel-like the radiance of the sun 
pouring through the rich stained glass on those superb 
carved pillars, that, like petrified stems of forest-trees, 
bear lightly up the lofty, vaulted roof to that vast height 
suggestive of a white sky rather than stone! 

Moving on slowly further toward the altar, he was sud¬ 
denly seized by an overpowering impression,—a mem¬ 
ory that rushed upon him with a sort of shock, albeit it 
was only the memory of a tune!—a wild melody, haunt¬ 
ing and passionate, rang in his eras,—the melody that 
Sarasate, the Orpheus of Spain, had evoked from the 
heart of his speaking violin,—the sobbing love-lament of 
the “ Zigeunerweisen ”—the weird minor-music that had 
so forcibly suggested—What? This very place ! —these 
snowy columns,—this sculptured sanctity—this flashing 
light of rose and blue and amber,—this wondrous hush 
of consecrated calm! What next? Dear God! Sweet 
Christ! what next? The face of Edris?—Would that 
heavenly countenance shine suddenly though those rain¬ 
bow-colored beams that struck slantwise down toward 
him?—and should he presently hear her dulcet voice 
charming the silence into deeper ecstasy ? 

Overcome by a sensation that was something like fear, 
he stopped abruptly, and leaning against one of the 
quaint old oaken benches, strove to control the quick, 
excited throbbing of his heart,—then gradually, very grad¬ 
ually he become conscious that he was not alone ,—an¬ 
other besides himself was in the church,—another, whom it 
was necessary for him to see ! 

He could not tell how he first grew to be certain of 
this,—but he was soon so completely possessed by the 
idea, that for a moment he dared not raise his eyes, or 
move ! Some invincible force held him there spell-bound.. 


ARDATff. 


"" m 

yet trembling in every limb,—and while he thus waited 
hesitatingly, the great organ woke up in a glory of tune¬ 
ful utterance,—wave after wa\e of richest harmony rolled 
through the stately aisles and . . “ Kyrie eleison l ” Kyrit 
eleison! ” rang forth in loud, full, and golden-toned 
chorusi 

Lifting his head, he stared wonderingly around him ; 
not a living creature was visible in all tli6 spacious width 
and length of the cathedral! His lips parted,—he felt 
as though he could scarcely breathe,—strong shudders 
ran through him, and he was penetrated by a plea-sing 
terror that was almost a physical pang,—an agonized ent^ 
rancement, like death or the desire of love! Presently, 
mastering himself by a determined effort, he advanced 
steadily with the absorbed air of one who is drawn along 
by magnetic power . . steadily and slowly up the nave, 
. . and as he went, the music surged more tumul¬ 
tuously among the vaulted arches,—there was a faint 
echo afar off, as of tinkling crystal bells; and at each 
onward step he gained a new access of courage, strength, 
firmness, and untrammelled ease, till every timorous doubt 
and fear had fled away, and he stood directly in front of 
the altar railing, gazing at the enshrined Cross, and see¬ 
ing for the moment nothing save that Divine Symbol 
alone. And still the organ played, and still the voices 
sang,—he knew these sounds were not of earth, and he 
also knew that they were intended to convey a meaning 
to him,—but what meaning ? 

All at once, moved by a sudden impulse, he turned to¬ 
ward the right hand side of the altar, where the great 
statue of St. Christopher stands, and where one of the 
loveliest windows in the world gleams like a great carven 
gem aloft, filtering the light through a myriad marvellous 
shades of color, and there he beheld, kneeling on the stone 
pavement, one solitary worshipper,—a girl. II x hands 
were dasped, and her face was bent upon them so that 
her features were not visible,—but the radiance from the 
window fell on her uncovered golden hair, encircling it 
with the glistening splendor of a heavenly nimbus,—and 
round her slight, devotional figure, rays of azure and rose 
jasper and emerald, flickered in wide and lustrous patterns, 
like the glow of the setting sun on a translucent sea. 
How very still she was! . . how fervently absorbed in 
prayer! 


ARDATIf. 


540 

Vaguely startled, and thrilled by an electric, undefinable 
instinct, Alwyn went toward her with hushed and reveren¬ 
tial tread, his eyes dwelling upon the drooping, delicate 
outline of her form with fascinated and eager attention. 
She was clad in gray,—a soft, silken, dove-like gray, that 
clung about her in picturesque, daintily draped folds,— 
he approached her still more nearly, and then could scarcely 
refrain from a loud cry of amazement! Wliat flowers 
were those she wore at her breast!—so white, so star-like, 
so suggestive of paradise lilies new-gathered? Were 
they not the flowers of Ardathf Dizzy with the sudden 
tumult of his own emotions, he dropped on his knees be¬ 
side her,—she did not stir! Was she real f —or a phantom ? 
Trembling violently, he touched her garment—it was of 
tangible, smooth texture, actual enough, if the sense of 
touch could be relied upon. In an agony of excitement 
and suspense he lost all remembrance of time, place, or 
custom,—her bewildering presence must be explained,— 
he must know who she was,—he must speak to her,— 
speak, if he died for it! 

“ Pardon me ! ” he whispered faintly, scarcely conscious 
of his own words ; “ I fancy,—I think,—we have met,— 
before! May I, . .dare I, . . ask your name ? ” 

Slowly she unclasped her gently folded hands ; slowly, 
very slowly, she lifted her bent head, and smiled at him! 
Oh, the lovely light upon her face! Oh, the angel glory 
of those strange, sweet eyes ! 

“ My name is Edris ! ”—she sakl, and as the pure beH- 
like tone of her voice smote the air with its silvery sound, 
the mysterious music of the organ and the invisible singers 
throbbed away,—away,—away,—into softer and softer 
echoes, that died at last tremulously and with a sigh, as 
of farewell, into the deepest silence. 

“ Edris ! ”—In a trance of passionate awe and rapture 
he caught her hand,—the warm, delicate hand that yielded 
to his strong clasp in submissive tenderness,—pulsations 
of terror, pain, and wild joy, all commingled, rushed 
through him,—with adoring, wistful gaze he scanned every 
feature of that love-smiling countenance,—a countenance 
no longer lustrous with Heaven’s blinding glory, but only 
most maidenlike and innocently fair,—dazzled, perplexed, 
and half afraid, he could not at once grasp the true com¬ 
prehension of his ineffable delight ! He had no doubt of 
her identity—he knew her well! she was his own heart- 


ATtDATH. 


541 

worshipped Angei,—but. on what errand had she wandered 
out of paradise ? Had she come once more, as on the 
Field of Ardath, to comfort him for a brief space with the 
beauty of her visible existence, or did she bring from 
Heaven the warrant for his death ? 

“Edris!” he said, as softly as one may murmur a 
prayer, “ Edris, my life, my love! Speak to me again! 
make me sure that I am not dreaming! Tell me where I 
have failed in my sworn faith since we parted; teach me 
h«w I must still further atone! Is this the hour ap¬ 
pointed for my spirit’s ransom ?—has this dear and sacred 
hand I hold, brought me my quittance of earth?—and 
have I so soon won the privilege to die ? ” 

As he spoke, she rose and stood erect, with all the 
glistening light of the stained window falling royally about 
her,—and he obeying her mute gesture, rose also and faced 
her in wondering ecstasy, half expecting to see her vanish 
suddenly in the sun-rays that poured through the Cathe¬ 
dral, even as she had vanished before like a white cloud 
absorbed in clear space. But no! She remained quiet as 
a tame bird,—her eyes met his with beautiful trust and 
tenderness,—and when she answered him, her low, sweet 
accents thrilled to his heart with a pathetic note of human 
affection, as well as of angelic sympathy! 

“ Theos, my Beloved, 1 am all thine l ” she said, a holy 
rapture vibrating through her exquisite voice.—“ Thine 
now, in mortal life as in immortal!—one with thee in 
nature and condition,—pent up in perishable clay, even 
as thou art,—subject to sorrow, and pain, and weariness,— 
willing to share with thee thine earthly lot,—ready to take 
my part in thy grief or joy! By mine own choice have 
I come hither,—sinless, yet not exempt from sin, but safe 
in Christ! Every time thou hast renounced the desire of 
thine own happiness, so much the nearer hast thou drawn 
me to thee; every time thou hast prayed God for my 
peace, rather than thine own, so much the closer has my 
existence been linked with thine! And now, O my Poet, 
my lord, my king!—we are together forever more,— 
together in the brief Present, as in the eternal Future!— 
the solitary heaven-days of Edris are past, and her mission 
is not Death, but Love! ” 

Oh, the transcendent beauty of that warm flush upon her 
face!—-ithe splendid hope, faith, and triumph of her atti¬ 
tude ! What strange miracle was here accomplished!—an 


Alt DATE. 


642 ^ 

Angel had become human for the sake of love, even as light 
substantiates itself in the colors of flowers !—the Eden lily 
had consented to be gathered,—the paradise dove had flut¬ 
tered down to earth! Breathless, bewildered, lifted to a 
height of transport beyond all words, Alwyn gazed upon 
her in entranced, devout silence,—the vast cathedral seemed 
to swing round and round in great glittering circles, and 
nothing was real, nothing steadfast, but that slight, sweet 
maiden in her soft gray robes, with the Ardath-blossoms 
gleaming white against her breast! Angel she was,— 
angel she ever would be,—and yet—what did she seem $ 
Naught but: 

“ A child-like woman, wise and very fair, 

Crowned with the garland of her golden hair !” 

This, and no more,—and yet in this was all earth and all 
heaven comprised!—He gazed and gazed, overwhelmed by 
the amazement of his own bliss,—he could have gazed 
upon her so in speechless ravishment for hours, when, with 
a gesture of infinite grace and appeal, she stretched out 
her hands toward him : 

“ Speak to me, dearest one! ” she murmured wistfully 
—“ Tell me,—am I welcome ? ” 

“ O exquisite humility !—O beautiful maiden-timid 
hesitation! Was she,—even she, God’s Angel, so far re¬ 
moved from pride, as to be uncertain of her lover’s recep¬ 
tion of such a gift of love ? Roused from his half-swoon¬ 
ing sense of wonder, he caught those gentle hands, and 
laid them tenderly against his breast,—tremblingly, and 
all devoutly, he drew the lovely, yielding form into his 
arms, close to his heart,—with dazzled sight he gazed 
down into that pure, perfect face, those clear and holy 
eyes shining like new-created stars beneath the soft cloud 
Ci clustering fair hair! 

“Welcome!” he echoed, in a tone that thrilled with 
passionate awe and ecstasy;—“ My Edris ! My Saint! 
My Queen! Welcome, more welcome than the first flow¬ 
ers seen after winter snows!—welcome, more welcome 
than swift rescue to one in dire peril!—welcome, my 
Angel, into the darkness of mortal things, which haply so 
sweet a Presence shall make bright! O sacred innocence 
that I am not worthy to shield! . . O sinless beauty that 
I am all unfitted to claim or possess! Welcome to my 


ARDATH. 


543 


life, my heart, my soul! Welcome, sweet Trust, sweet 
Hope, sweet Love, that as Christ lives, I will never wrong, 
betray, or resign again through all the glory spaces of far 
Eternity! ” 

As he spoke, his arms closed more surely about her,— 
his lips met hers,—and in the mingled human and divine 
rapture of that moment, there came a rushing noise, as of 
thousands of wings beating the air, followed by a mighty 
wave of music that rolled approachingly and then depart- 
ingly through and through the Cathedral arches—and a 
Voice, clear and resonant as a silver clarion, proclaimed 
aloud: 

“Those whom GOD hath joined together, let no man 
put asunder! ” 

Then, with a surging, jubilant sound, like the sea in a 
storm, the music seemed to tread past in a measured 
march of stately harmony,—and presently there was 
silence once more,—the silence and sunshine of the morn¬ 
ing pouring through the rose windows of the church and 
sparkling on the Cross above the Altar,—the silence of a 
love made perfect,—of twin souls made One ! 

And then Edris drew herself gently from her lover’s 
embrace and raised her head,—putting her hand confid¬ 
ingly in his, a lovely smile played on her sweetly parted 
lips : 

“Take me, Theos,” she said softly, “Lead me,—into 
the World!” 

# • # * # * * * 

Slowly the great side-doors of the Cathedral swung 
back on their hinges,—and out on the steps in a glorious 
blaze of sunlight came Poet and Angel together. The 
one, a man in the full prime of splendid and vigorous 
manhood,—the other, a maiden, timid and sweet, robed 
in gray attire with a posy of white flowers at her throat. 
A simple girl, and most distinctly human,—the fresh, 
pure color reddened in her cheeks,—the soft springtide 
wind fanned her gold hair, and the sunbeams seemed to 
dance about her in a bright revel of amaze and curiosity. 
Her lustrous eyes dwelt on the busy Platz below with a 
vaguely compassionate wonder—a look that suggested 
some far foreknowledge of things, that at the same time 
were strangely unfamiliar. Hand in hand w 7 ith her com¬ 
panion she stood,—while he, holding her fast, drank in 
the pureness of her beauty, the love-light of her glance, 


544 


Ann ath. 


the holy radiance of her smile, till every sense in him was 
. spiritualized anew by the passionate faith and reverence 
[ in his heart, the marvellous glory that had fallen upon 
4 his life, the nameless rapture that possessed his soul!—< 
To have knelt at her feet, and bowed his head before her 
in worshipping silence, would have been to follow the 
strongest impulse in him,—but she had given him a 
higher duty than this. He was to “ had her” —lead her 
“into the world!”—the dreary, dark world, so unfitted 
to receive such brightness,—she had come to him clad in 
all the sacred weakness of womanhood ; and it was his 
proud privilege to guard and shelter her from evil,—from 
the evil in others, but chiefly from the evil in himself. 
No taint must touch that spotless life with which God had 
entrusted him !—sorrow might come—nay, must come, 
since, so long as humanity errs, so long must angels 
grieve,—sorrow, but not sin! A grand, awed sense of 
responsibility filled him,—a responsibility that he ac¬ 
cepted with passionate gratitude and joy . . . he had 
attained a vaster dignity than any king on any throne, 
, . and all the visible Universe was transfigured into a 
golden pageant of loveliness and light, fairer than the 
fabled Valley of Avilion! 

Yet still he kept her close beside him on the steps of 
the mighty Dom, half-longing, half-hesitating to take her 
further, and ever and anon assailed by a dreamy doubt as 
to whether she might not even now pass away from him 
suddenly and swiftly, as a mist fading into heaven,— 
when all at once the sound of beating drums and martial 
trumpets struck loudly on the quiet morning air. A brill¬ 
iant regiment of mounted Uhlans emerged from an op¬ 
posite street, and cantered sharply across the Platz and 
over the Rhine-bridge, with streaming pennons, burnished 
helmets and accoutrements glistening in a long compact 
line of silvery white, that vanished as speedily as it had 
appeared, like a winding flash of meteor flame. Alwyn 
drew a deep, quick breath; the sight of those armed 
soldiers roused him to the fact that he was actually in 
the turmoil of present daily events,—that his supernal 
happiness was no vision, but reality ,—that Edris, his 
Spirit-love, was with him in tangible human guise of flesh 
and blood,—though how such a mysterious marvel had 
been accomplished, he knew no more than scientists know 
how the lovely life of green leaf and perfect flower can 


a it BATH, 


545 


jtill be existent in seeds that have lain dormant and dry 
hi old tombs for thousands of years! And as he looked 
At her proudly,—adoringly,—she raised her beautiful, 
innocent, questioning eyes to his. 

“ This is a city ? ” she asked—“ a city of men who labor 
for good, and serve each other?” 

“ Alas, not so, my sweet! ” he answered, his voice 
trembling with its own infinite tenderness; “ there is no 
city on the sad Earth where men do not labor for mere 
vanity’s sake, and oppose each other! ” 

Her inquiring gaze softened into a celestial compas¬ 
sion. 

“Come,—let us go!” she said gently. “We twain, 
made one in love and faith, must hasten to begin our 
work!—darkness gathers and deepens over the Sorrowful 
Star,—but we, perchance, with Christ’s most holy Bless¬ 
ing, may help to lift the Shadows into Light! ” 

* # # * # # 

Away in a sheltered mountainous retreat, apart from 
the louder clamor of the world, the Poet and his heavenly 
companion dwell in peace together. Their love, their 
wondrous happiness, no mortal language can define,—for 
spiritual love perfected as far exceeds material passion 
as the steadfast glory of the sun outshines the flickering 
of an earthly taper. Few, very few, there are who 
recognize, or who attain, such joy,—for men chiefly oc¬ 
cupy themselves with the semblances of things, and there¬ 
fore fail to grasp all high realities. Perishable beauty,— 
perishable fame,—these are mere appearances ; imperish¬ 
able Worth is the only positive and lasting good, and in 
the search for imperishable Worth alone, the seeker must 
needs encounter Angels unawares ! 

But for those whose pleasure it is to doubt and deny all 
spiritual life and being, the history of Theos Alwyn can 
be disposed of with much languid ease and cold logic, as 
a foolish chimera scarce worth narrating. Practically 
viewed, there is nothing wonderful in it, since it can all 
be traced to a powerful exertion of magnetic skill. 
Tranced into a dream bewilderment by the arts of the 
mystic Chaldean, Heliobas,—tricked into visiting the 
Field of Ardath, what more likely than that a real earth- 
born maiden, trained to her part, should have met the 
dreamer there, and, with the secret aid of the hermit 
EMzar, continued his strange delusion? What more fit- 


546 


ABDATH. 


ting as a sequel to the whole, than that the same maiden 
should have been sent to him again in the great Rhine 
Cathedral, to complete the deception and satisfy his im¬ 
agination by linking her life finally with his?—It is a 
perfectly simple explanation of what some credulous souls 
might be inclined to consider a mystery,—and let the 
dear, wise, oracular people who cannot admit any mystery 
in anything, and who love to trace all seeming miracles 
to clever imposture, accept this elucidation by all means, 
—they will be able to fit every incident of the story into 
such an hypothesis, with most admirable and consecutive 
neatness! Al-Kyris was truly a Vision,—the rest was,— 
What? Merely the working of a poetic imagination 
under mesmeric influence ! 

So be it! The Poet knows the truth,—but what are 
Poets? Only the Prophets and Seers! Only the Eyes 
of Time, which clearly behold Heaven’s Fact beyond this 
world’s Fable. Let them sing if they choose, and we will 
hear them in our idle hours,—we will give them a little 
of our gold,—a little of our grudging praise, together 
with much of our private practical contempt and mis- 
prisal! So say the unthinking and foolish—so will they 
ever say,—and hence it is, that though the fame of Theos 
Alwyn widens year by year, and his sweet clarion harp of 
Song rings loud warning, promise, hope, and consolation 
above the noisy tumult of the whirling age, people listen 
to him merely in vague wonderment and awe, doubting 
his prophet utterance, and loth to put away their sin. 
But he, never weary in well-doing, works on, . . eve? 
regardless of Self, caring nothing for Fame, but giv¬ 
ing all the riches of his thought for Love. Clear, grand, 
pure, and musical, his writings fill the time with hope 
and passionate faith and courage,—his inspiration fails 
not, and can never fail, since Edris is his fount of ecstasy, 
—fiis name, made glorious by God’s blessing, shall never, 
as in his perished Past, be again forgotten! 

And what of Edris ? What of the “ Flower-crowned 
Wonder ” of the Field of Ardath, strayed for a while out 
of her native Heaven? Does the world know her mar¬ 
vellous origin ? Perhaps the mystic Heliobas knows,— 
perhaps even good Frank Villiers has hazarded a reverent 
guess at his friend’s great secret—but to the uninstructed, 
what does she seem ? 

^ Nothing but a woman , most pure womanly ; a woman 


ARDATH. 


54 / 


whose influence on all is strangely sweet and lasting,— 
whose spirit overflows with tenderest sympathy for the 
many wants and sorrows of mankind,—whose voice 
charms away care,—whose smile engenders peace,— 
whose eyes, lustrous and thoughtful, are unclouded by 
any shadow of sin,—and on whose serene beauty the 
passing of years leaves no visible trace. That she is fair 
and wise, joyous, radiant, and holy is apparent to all,— 
but only the Poet, her lover and lord, her subject and 
servant, can tell how truly his Edris is not so much 
sweet woman as most perfect Angel 1 A Dream of 
Heaven made human ! . . . . Let some of us hesitate ere 
we doubt the Miracle; for we are sleepers and dreamers 

all,—and the hour is close at hand when->we shall 

Wake. 


THE EJfD. 



































































































